RKELEY 

5RARY 

VERSiTY  Of 
aiFORNIA 


STILL  LIFE 


TO 

K.   M. 

AND 

L.    H.   B. 


STILL  LIFE 


BY 

J.   MIDDLETON  MURRY 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


M  /  i 
*fr 

STILL  LIFE 

PART  I 

CHAPTER   I 

"  BETTER  make  an  end  of  it.  ...  Better  make  an  end  of 
it.  ...  Better  make  an  end  of  it.  .  .  ."  The  steady  beat 
of  the  night  train  from  the  German  frontier  to  Paris  became 
part  of  the  argument.  It  was  the  argument.  Maurice 
wondered  whether  he  was  anything  save  this  monotonous 
reinforcement  of  his  nagging  purpose.  Perhaps  if  the  train 
stopped,  he  would  stop  too.  After  all  it  was  only  his 
cowardice.  He  had  decided  as  much  as  he  could  decide 
that  he  would  see  her  once  more  and  tell  her  that  it  was 
impossible.  Immediately  she  would  understand,  for 
nothing  could  be  clearer  than  the  certainty  that  he  could 
not  get  on  with  his  work  in  life  unless  they  parted.  He  was 
not  sure  what  he  meant  by  his  work  in  life,  but  it  needed  all 
of  him,  or  it  needed  all  that  thinking  part  of  him  which  she 
could  so  easily  break  down  by  one  of  her  absurdly  mis- 
spelt letters.  "  Tu  m'a  fais  beaucoup  de  peine."  Oh,  yes, 
he'd  written  to  her  to  say  he  would  come  back  to  see  her. 
How  could  he  have  done  otherwise  ?  He  was  going  to 
explain  it  all  to-morrow.  He  was  afraid.  He  was  afraid 
of  her  silent  eyes  when  the  tears  stood  in  them  ;  above  all 
afraid  of  himself  who  would  hold  her  in  his  arms  and  tell 
lies  about  loving  her.  She  would  not  believe  what  he 
would  say  ;  and  he  was  afraid  of  the  part  of  him  that 
would  watch  her  as  she  tried  to  believe.  He  was  afraid  of 
everything  which  brought  them  together.  "  Better  make 
an  end  of  it.  .  .  ." 

300 


2  STILL  LIFE 

He  watched  a  fat  and  wheezing  Alsatian  crawl  over  the 
floor,  picking  up  the  cigars  the  frontier  customs  men  had 
strewn  about,  and  listened  vaguely  to  his  curses.  He 
looked  out  of  the  window  towards  some  furnaces  that 
flamed  into  the  black  sky ;  then  back  to  the  dull  khaki- 
coloured  seats. 

She  had  no  right  to  cling  to  him  and  drag  him  down. 
She  must  have  known  that  love  like  theirs  did  not  last,  was 
never  meant  to  last.  She  had  had  plenty  of  affairs  before  ; 
but  because  this  was  his  first  love  she  was  determined  to 
hold  him  for  ever.  He  saw  Madeleine  as  Machiavellian,  and 
burst  into  weak  anger  against  her.  It  was  not  that  she  was 
in  love  with  him  ;  she  saw  in  him  that  to  which  she  might 
fasten  and  save  herself  from  being  swept  away  by  her  own 
desire  to  love.  Besides,  she  had  never  made  even  a  pre- 
tence of  understanding  him.  He  had  a  mind  that  worked 
somewhere  far  away  from  them  both,  a  stupid  mind  perhaps 
but  which  he  loved  and  which  was  wholly  him.  He  had 
ideals,  or  rather,  he  thought  as  he  vaguely  probed  the  mist 
to  find  what  they  might  be,  he  had  a  capacity  for  ideals 
with  which  she  could  never  sympathise.  She  had  never 
displayed  a  shadow  of  interest  in  that ;  and  once  when  he 
had  spoken  to  her  in  his  half-tentative,  half-pompous  way 
•  about  writing  a  book,  she  had  only  made  a  mouth  and  said 
that  all  she  could  bear  to  read  was  histoires  d?  amour. 

Now  he  seemed  to  have  his  trouble  in  perspective.  Their 
whole  beings  stood  asunder.  She  understood  him  only 
when  he  was  a  child.  He  could  not  help  being  a  child 
sometimes  and  putting  his  head  upon  her  breast  and  look- 
ing up  to  be  kissed ;  and  then  he  had  felt  that  life  was 
wondrously  easy  if  one  only  let  oneself  be  carried  along 
with  the  flood.  But  since  he  had  been  away  from  her  the 
impulse  had  left  him.  He  had  won  small  victories  with 
his  brain,  insignificant  to  all  save  him  alone,  victories 
which  seemed  to  show  him  that  there  lay  the  road  by  which 
he  must  travel  to  win  anything  permanent  from  the  life 
which  passed  before  his  eyes  continually,  in  colour  like  the 


STILL  LIFE  3 

dun  carriage  cushions,  lighted  as  the  carriage  by  a  low- 
turned  lamp  that  only  deepened  the  shadows  and  made 
nothing  plain.  He  had  won  something  in  the  six  months 
since  he  had  seen  her,  if  it  were  no  more  than  a  vague  in- 
dication of  where  he  must  choose  ;  and  by  so  much  he  was 
strengthened  against  her  now,  but  so  little  strengthened 
that  he  had  a  double  fear  of  what  she  might  take  from  him. 
He  had  piled  stone  on  tiny  stone  to  make  a  wall  against 
her,  and  he  felt  that  she  had  power  in  a  second  by  a  word 
or  a  glance  to  topple  it  down  as  though  it  had  never  been. 

"  But  still,"  he  thought,  "  if  she  wins  it  is  because  I 
don't  deserve  to."  The  burst  of  fatalism  gave  him  a 
spurious  courage.  He  tried  to  prevent  his  thought  from 
turning  back  upon  itself  to  test  its  own  truth,  but  in  vain. 
People  may  be  false  to  their  ideals  however  true,  he  thought. 
Not  all  who  are  beaten  are  beaten  because  they  do  not 
deserve  to  win.  The  right  to  victory  comes  only  by  long 
practice  and  incessant  tempering  of  a  will  which  is  not 
given  to  a  man  in  its  final  perfection,  but  created  by  each 
successive  impulse  to  conquest. 

It  did  not  take  him  long  to  shatter  his  own  fatalistic 
confidence.  Then  he  said  to  himself  :  "  This  is  a  struggle 
which  means  years  to  you.  If  you  win,  you  win  something 
for  ever."  Came  his  answer  :  "If  you  lose,  you  will  have 
many  chances  still."  He  was  always  opening  a  way  of 
escape  for  himself  ;  and  he  knew  that,  although  his  articu- 
late thought  would  not  allow  it,  he  had  acquiesced  in  his 
own  defeat.  She  must  end  it.  She  would  see  that  he  did 
not  love  her  any  more,  because  she  could  not  fail  to  see. 
He  summoned  up  a  fine  indignation  against  his  cowardice, 
only  to  end  in  a  faint  suspicion  that  there  was  something 
heroic  in  remaining  with  Madeleine.  Now  he  could  find 
in  his  consciousness  no  point  on  which  he  might  lean  and 
resist.  All  that  remained  in  that  chaotic  interplay  of 
argument  and  objection  was  the  deep  knowledge  that  to 
part  finally  was  right,  that  all  else  was  wrong,  and  that  he 
was  too  weak  to  do  what  was  right.  The  train  was  taking 


4  STILL  LIFE 

him  there.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done.  "  Better  make 
an  end  of  it.  .  .  ." 

The  picture  was  very  clear  to  him.  The  only  light  in 
his  mind  was  focussed  on  this  thread  of  his  history.  He 
had  begun  it  a  boy  and  now  he  was  a  man.  He  had  gone 
to  Paris  with  a  boy's  exhilarant  expectation  of  adventure, 
which  he  had  met  with  a  childish  simplicity.  With  assi- 
duity he  had  frequented  the  cafes  of  the  demi-monde  to 
attain  the  easy  familiarity  of  the  man  of  the  world.  In- 
stead, he  had  been  overwhelmed  by  a  flood  of  sentimen- 
tality ;  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  all  the  women,  fallen 
even  more  deeply  in  love  with  his  own  prodigious  conceit 
of  understanding  them,  as  he  called  it  in  his  innocence. 

He  had  tramped  on  Christmas  Eve  in  the  company  of  a 
tribe  of  students  from  some  curious  Eastern  country  whose 
name  he  never  could  make  out,  singing  songs  which  he  did 
not  understand,  buying  gingerbread  from  the  baraques, 
which  he  could  not  eat,  nervously  aiding  and  abetting 
them  while  they  accosted  women,  to  whom  if  he  spoke  he 
would  behave  as  in  an  English  drawing-room.  His  desire 
to  be  accepted  as  normal  in  a  city  where  there  is  no  surface 
normality,  and  his  tormenting  self-consciousness  while  he 
strove  to  achieve  this  desire,  drove  him  into  company  he 
hated,  and  compelled  him  to  do  and  say  things  in  which 
he  had  no  heart.  He  was  acutely  miserable  during  that 
Christmas,  because  he  knew  he  was  guilty  of  treachery 
towards  himself ;  because  he  was  miserable  he  felt  the 
imperious  need  of  some  sincere  affection.  If  he  could  only 
unburden  himself  of  his  troubles  and  put  away  this  tyran- 
nous pretence  of  manifold  experience  in  another's  presence, 
he  knew  he  would  regain  some  of  his  happiness  ;  but  he 
was  afraid  that  the  other  would  laugh  at  him  or  laugh  his 
trouble  away.  His  fear  of  being  misunderstood  held  him 
back,  and  in  the  fear  there  was  a  little  pride,  as  always  in 
him,  at  the  thought  that  he  was  so  individual  that  he 
probably  would  be  misunderstood.  But  the  comfort  of 
his  pride  weighed  as  nothing  against  his  misery. 


STILL  LIFE  5 

They  stopped  Madeleine  on  the  Boulevard.  She  was 
known  to  him  by  sight  already.  Maurice  watched  her 
dully,  for  his  eyes  were  fastened  upon  two  cherries  which 
bobbed  their  independent  life  upon  her  hat. 

"  Behrens  has  been  looking  for  you  for  days.  I  believe 
the  poor  idiot  has  made  himself  ill  over  you.  He  wasn't  at 
dinner." 

The  man  who  spoke  swayed  his  body  so  that  the  sleeves 
of  his  coat,  slung  round  his  shoulders,  swung  against  her 
to  show  his  absolute  indifference,  for  her,  for  Behrens,  for 
both  of  them  together. 

"  Can't  help  it,"  she  said.  "  I've  been  properly  ill  since 
I  saw  you  last.  Anyhow,  what  have  I  to  do  with  Behrens  ? 
— what  a  name  ! — he's  only  a  silly  baby."  She  seemed  to 
be  laughing  at  the  recollection  of  him.  Maurice  remembered 
him  for  a  rather  dirty,  childish,  stupid  fellow  who  was  tre- 
mendously addicted  to  talking  of  his  exploits  at  "  le  foot- 
ing." He  had  been  sitting  in  a  cafe  one  evening  when 
Madeleine  had  upset  his  chair  from  behind  ;  and  Maurice 
had  watched  the  struggle  in  his  face  between  discomfited 
dignity  and  a  lurking  suspicion  that  this  was  a  declaration 
of  love. 

She  tapped  with  her  foot  on  the  ground,  smiling  at  her 
thoughts.  Tall  and  slim,  with  her  head  bent  slightly  for- 
ward over  her  insignificant  muff,  the  red  cherries  bobbing 
in  her  hat  as  she  tapped  the  ground,  she  seemed  to  fit  well 
into  the  picture  into  which  he  shaped  the  recollections  of 
the  cafe.  He  could  not  tolerate  that  she  should  address 
all  her  conversation  to  the  others. 

"  Have  you  been  very  ill  ?  What's  been  the  matter  with 
you  ?  " 

She  turned  to  him,  glanced  him  up  and  down  with  the 
same  smile. 

"  Bon  jour,  mon  petit  Anglais !  Oh,  only  something 
wrong  with  my  lungs — going  out  without  a  coat.  I'm  all 
right  now,  you  see."  She  flung  out  her  arms  and  held 
back  her  head  that  he  should  inspect  her. 


6  STILL  LIFE 

"  I  am  very  glad."  He  couldn't  find  anything  to  say. 
Someone  was  making  more  jokes  about  Behrens.  To  his 
surprise  his  usual  uncomprehending  laugh  failed  him.  He 
had  an  idea  that  they  were  cruel  and  vulgar. 

The  party  moved  on.  Maurice,  the  last  to  shake  hands 
with  her,  took  off  his  hat,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes. 
He  wished  he  could  say  something.  He  was  not  sure 
whether  the  laughter  in  her  eyes  meant  that  she  found  him 
more  ridiculous  than  another,  or  more  pleasant.  He 
vigorously  insisted  with  his  companions  that  she  was  very 
different  from  the  rest ;  but  they  paid  not  the  least  atten- 
tion to  the  subject  save  that  one  remarked  that  Behrens 
was  an  utter  fool. 

The  same  night  as  he  left  the  cafe,  with  half-formed 
purpose,  tailing  behind  his  friends,  he  caught  sight  of  her 
at  a  table  alone.  With  a  great  effort  to  nerve  himself  he 
turned  from  the  door  and  walked  towards  her.  He  asked 
her  whether  she  would  come  and  have  dinner  with  him 
to-morrow.  It  was  not  much  of  a  restaurant,  he  thought 
suddenly,  as  he  told  her  where  he  dined ;  indeed,  it  was 
the  cheapest  in  the  neighbourhood.  There  was  time  for 
him  first  to  curse  himself  for  not  having  proposed  some- 
thing better,  then  to  congratulate  himself  for  thus  sug- 
gesting to  her  that  he  was  different,  before  he  heard  her 
reply. 

"  I  should  like  to  very  much.  I  know  the  place.  To- 
morrow, then."  He  knew  that  he  looked  happy  and  was 
sure  that  she  noticed  it  when  he  said  good-bye,  dashed  out 
of  another  door  and  joined  the  others  at  the  corner. 
Nobody  remarked  his  manoeuvre.  He  was  profoundly 
relieved. 

Such  was  the  beginning.  After  that  eventful  dinner 
they  had  sat  together  in  a  cafe.  Feeling  that  he  was  now 
caught  into  a  process  which  he  could  not  control,  he  sur- 
rendered himself.  A  woman  glanced  at  him  and  whispered 
a  question  to  Madeleine :  "  Was  he  her  lover  ?  "  He 
heard  it.  Delight  passed  into  intoxication  at  her  reply  : 


STILL  LIFE  7 

"  I  don't  know  . .  .  Perhaps."  Then  he  saw  her  look  at  him 
as  though  there  were  no  doubt  at  all ;  nor  did  he  worry  as 
he  would  have  done  the  day  before,  whether  it  was  that  he 
was  raised  in  his  own  estimation  or  whether  something  out- 
side himself  had  for  the  first  time  laid  hold  upon  him 
utterly.  But  not  all  his  intoxication  swept  away  the 
timidity  that  held  him  when  he  wanted  to  kiss  her.  He 
was  so  frightened  and  so  determined  that  he  proclaimed 
his  intention  in  steady  and  colourless  French ;  but  as  he 
looked  at  her  eyes,  brown  and  laughing,  he  saw  that  the 
laughter  had  decided  itself.  She  was  laughing,  not  at  him 
but  for  him.  And  so  they  kissed.  He  was  beside  himself. 
He  gave  her  everything  he  had  that  might  be  a  keepsake, 
a  tiny  gold  pin,  his  only  jewellery,  and  a  little  leather  card- 
case,  which  could  have  been  of  no  use  to  her.  He  taught 
her  how  to  pronounce  his  name  English.  When  he  left  her, 
she  said  she  would  be  there  the  next  evening  at  ten. 

He  waited  in  agony.  From  seven  o'clock  onwards  he 
could  not  steady  himself  for  a  moment.  He  was  much  too 
early  at  the  rendezvous,  and  he  waited  ;  for  waiting  seemed 
now  to  him  to  have  acquired  a  positive  quality  of  torture, 
as  though  a  man  might  achieve  a  destiny  of  waiting  and 
then  die.  He  saw  nothing,  not  even  the  clock  which  slowly 
hypnotised  his  sight.  He  was  a  thing  that  waited.  Sud- 
denly somebody,  in  recollection  he  thought  a  woman,  asked 
if  he  was  Monsieur  Maurice  who  was  waiting  for  Madeleine, 
and  put  a  note  into  his  hand.  "  I  am  ill.  I  cannot  come 
out  to-night.  Will  you  come  to  see  me  ?  "  He  started  up 
in  a  fury  of  motion,  which  was  checked  a  little,  not  satisfied 
as  he  groped  his  way  up  a  dark  staircase.  He  saw  her 
lying  on  her  bed,  her  dark  brown  hair  dishevelled  over  the 
pillow,  made  blacker  by  the  little  light  that  came  from  a 
smoky  lamp  on  the  mantelpiece.  Madeleine  raised  herself 
to  stretch  out  her  arms  towards  him. 

"  Tu  m'aimes  alors,  mon  petit  Maurice  ?  " 

"  Oui,  je  t'aime." 

He  kissed  her  many  times,  covering  himself  about  with 


8  STILL  LIFE 

her  affection.  He  was  in  love  with  the  shelter  which  she 
afforded  him,  with  the  freedom  he  had  with  her  to  be  a 
child,  securely.  Having  found  that  which  he  desired,  he 
desired  no  more. 

After  many  days  they  were  lovers,  he  almost  against  his 
will,  she  in  the  desire  to  give  him  all  she  had  to  give,  forcing 
him  to  accept  everything.  He  was  afraid  to  refuse  and  to 
hear  her  say  :  "  Then  you  don't  love  me  ?  "  He  answered 
her  question  :  "  Are  you  happy  ?  "  with  "  Yes,"  truly  ; 
because  he  could  not  yet  tell  what  that  might  be  which  so 
profoundly  bade  him  say  "  No."  He  was  frightened  by  a 
sure  instinct  which  told  him  that  he  had  lost  everything 
because  she  had  given  everything.  Half-intoxicated,  half 
in  terror  at  some  power  which  he  had  awakened  he  passed 
a  few  days  of  nervous  tormented  hours  until  the  time  came 
for  him  to  leave  Paris.  He  was  frightened  when  he  was 
with  her,  but  always  a  little  of  the  first  security  remained  ; 
when  they  were  apart  he  lost  even  this.  At  the  very 
moment  when  they  were  saying  "  good-bye "  on  the 
station,  and  he  heard  himself  promising  to  write  every 
day  and  to  be  back  with  her  within  a  month,  he  began  to 
see  clearly.  She  had  given  him  all,  and  she  was  now  seek- 
ing in  him  the  secure  protection,  the  opportunity  of  sur- 
render, which  he  himself  had  found  in  her  and  had  magnified 
into  love  ;  and  because  she  had  thrust  all  that  she  had  into 
his  keeping  she  had  forced  him  into  sheltering  her.  He 
who  could  not  maintain  himself,  had  now  to  support  her. 
He  would  have  to  assure  her  continually  of  a  love  which 
he  did  not  feel  and  had  never  felt ;  and  as  the  train  left 
the  station,  he  knew  that  hypocrisy  had  begun,  that  it 
would  grow  to  a  canker  because  of  his  cowardice,  and  would 
end  only  if  his  cowardice,  by  its  very  extremity,  passed 
into  bravery. 

"  Better  make  an  end  of  it.  ...  Better  make  an  end  of 
it.  .  .  ."  He  had  seen  truly,  for  perhaps  his  only  virtue  was 
his  ability  to  see  into  the  movements  of  his  own  mind.  He 
examined  himself  so  often  and  instinctively  that  his  whole 


STILL  LIFE  9 

life  seemed  to  be  histrionic,  broken  by  one  only  impulse  to 
throw  himself  into  another's  keeping,  and  thus  be  rid  of 
the  unending  necessity  of  choosing  and  acting  the  part  he 
chose.  By  some  strange  and  tragic  inevitability,  at  the 
moment  when  this  impulse  was  most  fully  satisfied,  and  he 
had  lost  for  days  and  weeks  the  consciousness  of  his 
accusing  mind,  he  had  been  forced  into  a  posture  of 
strength,  wholly  foreign  to  him.  Before  he  had  written 
the  first  letter  to  her  he  knew  that  his  one  desire  was  never 
to  see  her  again,  to  forget  her,  if  he  could  forget,  and  the 
knowledge  was  never  more  clear  than  on  the  day  of  their 
first  parting.  There  remained  to  complete  his  miser}  his 
knowledge  of  the  cowardice  that  held  him  from  telling  her 
the  truth.  Every  time  that  he  wrote  a  letter  he  watched 
himself  with  disgusted  curiosity  construct  phrases  of  deep 
affection  ;  every  time  he  received  a  letter  from  her,  a  wave 
of  sentiment,  which  he  knew  for  false  at  the  very  moment 
that  it  made  him  cry,  broke  over  him  and  urged  him  on  to 
yet  another  hypocrisy.  Thus  the  affair  had  dragged  on 
monotonously,  interrupted  only  by  some  momentary 
heroics  when  Madeleine  wrote  to  him  to  say  that  she  was 
about  to  have  a  child.  It  did  not  take  him  more  than  a  few 
hours  to  see  that  his  brave  resolution  to  go  off  and  marry 
her  was  but  the  expression  of  his  supremest  cowardice,  and 
thenceforward  he  despised  himself  even  more  profoundly 
than  before.  He  put  off  their  meeting  as  long  as  he  could, 
while  his  terror  of  action  contorted  itself  within  him,  so 
that  he  longed  to  postpone  his  final  cowardice  out  of 
cowardice  itself.  His  mind  was  tinged  by  a  shadowy  faith 
that  all  difficulties  disappeared  spontaneously  by  lapse  of 
time,  and  his  very  irresolution  took  on  the  appearance  of 
indefinable  virtue.  Nevertheless,  at  the  last  he  had  found 
himself  relentlessly  driven  towards  her,  and  now  in  the 
train  which  bore  him  towards  the  dreaded  meeting  his 
mind  was  divided  in  incessant  debate  with  his  will.  The 
struggle  had  reached  its  most  acute  stage,  and  as  he  lay 
back  in  the  corner  he  felt  tired.  He  was  inipotently  con- 


10  STILL  LIFE 

scious  that  he  was  smiling  at  the  panting,  swearing  figure 
of  the  Alsatian  picking  up  the  last  cigar. 

"  Better  make  an  end  of  it.  ...  Better  make  an  end  of 
it.  .  .  ."  It  would  be  a  good  thing  to  be  an  engine-driver, 
with  the  same  pair  of  straight  rails  always  before  him,  and 
nothing  to  do  save  to  shovel  on  coal.  Then  he  thought  of 
the  men  he  knew,  who  never  had  and  never  would  have  to 
deal  with  troubles  such  as  his.  He  thought  of  Dupont,  the 
Frenchman  with  whom  alone  he  had  the  careless  intimacy 
of  mutual  incomprehensibility,  Dupont  who  said  that  you 
must  never  love  a  woman  more  than  three  or  four  days, 
but  during  those  three  or  four  days  you  must  never  think 
of  anything  else,  never  leave  her  for  a  moment,  and  thus, 
knowing  her  to  the  last  hiding-places  of  her  mind,  break 
with  her  once  for  all,  leaving  no  thread  of  the  unknown 
or  the  unexplored  to  bind  you  to  her.  Otherwise — he 
recollected  the  expressive  gesture  with  which  Dupont  had 
enforced  the  words — she  clings  to  you  and  conquers  you, 
enticing  you  with  that  in  her  mind  which  you  have  not 
paused  to  discover.  This  was  the  philosophy  on  which 
Dupont  had  always  acted,  and  it  had  never  failed  him. 
He  went  straight  towards  his  goal,  hindered  by  no  woman, 
yet  knowing  more,  and  adored  by  more  than  Maurice  had 
ever  dreamed  of.  Soon  after  he  had  first  been  parted  from 
Madeleine,  Dupont  had  discovered  him  sending  her  money 
and  had  laughed  ;  and  he  had  had  to  conceal  the  enormity 
of  his  offence  by  an  air  of  nonchalance,  for  fear  of  being 
finally  despised.  Why  was  he  alone  forced  to  drink  the 
cup  to  the  dregs,  he  alone  compelled  to  drag  out  months 
and  years  oppressed  by  a  history  that  had  ended  in  three 
weeks  ?  His  indignation  against  destiny  and  the  fatality 
of  his  own  temperament  was  easily  quelled.  He  knew 
too  well  that  the  ultimate  answer  was  always  the  same — 
cowardice ;  and  he  had  passed  beyond  the  stage  wherein 
he  could  let  it  masquerade  under  the  name  of  affection  or 
decency  and  suffer  the  deceit.  Even  the  infinitesimal 
labour  of  unmasking  himself  became  monotonous.  He 


STILL  LIFE  11 

forced  himself  for  a  moment  to  regard  the  matters  of  fact. 
He  had  written  to  Madeleine  to  say  that  he  would  be  in 
Paris  the  next  day  and  would  immediately  send  her  word 
where  he  was  staying.  He  congratulated  himself  she 
would  not  be  at  the  station  to  meet  him  and  take  him  off 
his  guard.  Between  then  and  to-morrow  he  would  have 
time  to  pull  himself  together ;  besides,  it  was  tyranny 
that  he  should  have  to  think  more  about  the  affair  now 
that  he  was  tired  out.  He  would  not  think  about  it  again 
until  he  arrived.  He  did  not  think  any  more  because  he 
had  thought  everything  ;  but  the  oeating  of  the  train  upon 
the  rails  left  him  no  peace. 

"  Better  make  an  end  of  it.  ...  Better  make  an  end  of 
it.  .  .  ." 

He  climbed  down  from  the  train,  conscious  of  nothing 
save  that  a  tired  porter  had  his  bag,  that  the  station  was 
very  dark,  and  that  he  was  shivering  though  the  air  was 
warm.  It  was  eleven  o'clock.  There  seemed  to  be  no  life 
anywhere,  and  least  of  all  where  the  waiters  of  the  station 
cafe*  crawled  about  in  their  bright  country.  In  just  a  few 
bars  and  shops  the  light  won  a  little  ground  from  the  dark- 
ness, but  even  there  it  was  dim  and  unreal.  Sometimes  at 
its  brightest  a  stream  of  metallic  blue  poured  in  through 
the  windows  of  the  cab.  Suddenly  a  cart  halted  far  ahead 
in  the  line  of  close-following  traffic  and  the  sound  of  stopping 
ran  consecutively  from  carriage  to  carriage,  like  the 
sound  of  the  marbles  he  used  to  run  along  his  desk-groove 
at  school.  There  was  a  man  with  a  hand-cart  between  his 
cab  and  the  omnibus  in  front,  and  as  the  omnibus  stopped 
dead  the  man  preposterously  lifted  his  leg  into  the  air,  to 
prevent  himself  from  colliding  with  the  tail  of  the  omnibus. 
Somebody  laughed.  The  man  kept  his  leg  there  for  an 
eternity.  Everything  was  grotesque  and  unreal.  The 
porter  of  his  remote  hotel  rubbed  his  eyes  as  he  slouched 
to  the  cab-door  and  trailed  upstairs  with  the  bag. 

Maurice  saw  his  hands  in  a  circle  of  light  on  the  table 
and  found  himself  writing,  with  a  curiously  definite  know- 


12  STILL  LIFE 

ledge  of  times  and  dates.  "  I  am  here.  I  shall  wait  for 
you  to-morrow  at  seven."  After  he  had  left  her  Madeleine 
had  gone  into  a  milliner's  shop,  where  she  worked  every 
day  until  half-past  six.  She  could  not  see  him  earlier  ; 
nor  could  he  visit  her,  because  she  lived  en  pension  in  a 
cheap  boarding-house.  He  went  out  to  post  the  letter, 
walked  about  for  a  few  minutes,  then  went  to  his  room 
again  and  slept. 

The  next  day  he  felt  nothing  but  the  fatigue  of  long 
exhaustion.  Wandering  about  to  find  old  acquaintances, 
he  seldom  thought  of  the  meeting ;  he  had  no  power  to 
wonder  about  it  any  more,  for  that  part  of  him  was  numbed. 
The  mental  stress  had  passed  into  physical.  His  body 
was  sick  as  he  dragged  up  and  down  stairs,  and  friends 
innumerable  shook  him  by  the  hand  and  said,  "  You're 
not  looking  very  fit,  Temple."  He  felt  his  own  smile  as  he 
made  the  invariable  answer :  "I'm  not  much  good  at  these 
all-night  train  journeys."  He  went  to  see  Miss  Etheredge, 
who  had  known  him  and  Madeleine  together.  She  spoke 
as  though  the  affair  belonged  to  the  past. 

"  But  she  was  quite  different  from  the  general  run.  She 
was  just  a  country  child,  who  had  lost  her  bearings  in  a 
strange  place.  You  couldn't  help  it ;  but  it  wasn't  fair 
the  way  you  had  with  her.  .  .  .  You're  too  young,  too  much 
of  a  child  yourself,  you  know  ;  so  you  upset  her  values  for 
her.  Took  her  into  the  domestic,  darn  your  socks  and  look 
after  the  baby  part  of  her  mind.  They  haven't  got  any 
use  for  that  kind  of  thing  in  Paris.  No,  it  wasn't  fair.  She 
was  happy  enough  before  you  turned  up  and  you  upset  her 
life  for  her.  Nobody  has  a  right  to  take  a  woman  like  that 
too  seriously.  I  shan't  forget  when  you'd  gone  away  how 
I  met  her  in  the  street  and  she  danced  across  to  me  to  show 
me  a  photo  of  yourself  that  you'd  sent  her.  Same  one  as 
you  sent  me,  over  there  !  No,  you've  got  something  to 
answer  for. 

"  I  don't  blame  you  though.  You  couldn't  help  it.  You 
meant  it  all ;  but  you  are  such  a  child  You  ought  never 


STILL  LIFE  13 

to  be  let  loose  on  a  civilisation  that  doesn't  cater  for  that 
kind  of  thing.  Still,  what  does  it  matter  ?  She's  gone 
back  to  the  country  somewhere,  to  dream  of  the  young 
and  charming  Englishman,  and  have  a  dozen  children  by 
the  local  butcher,  who'll  marry  her  as  soon  as  her  family 
repent  enough  to  put  down  a  hundred  pounds.  And  you've 
really  forgotten  her  already." 

"  It  can't  be  irony, "  Maurice  said  to  himself.  "  She 
doesn't  know."  Then  he  began  to  laugh,  and  to  make  an 
arrangement  for  a  day  of  picture  exhibitions.  He  took 
out  his  watch.  He  had  half  an  hour  to  cover  the  ten 
minutes'  walk  home.  Listening  to  her  conversation,  he 
began  to  be  restless  and  impatient.  She  noticed  it,  and 
half- jealously,  half  in  contrariety,  tried  to  keep  him  longer. 
He  decided  he  would  go  immediately.  Piqued,  she  said  as 
he  opened  the  door  :  "  You  mustn't  be  late  for  her." 

He  pondered  over  the  words  as  he  went  down  the  stairs, 
and  wondered  how  she  knew  to  whom  he  was  going,  and 
whether  all  the  long  conversation  had  been  sheer  acting. 
He  tried  hard  to  twist  himself  round  so  that  he  could  see 
the  matter  calmly.  The  new  problem  haunted  him  as  he 
dodged  across  the  streets ;  and  he  thought  there  was 
something  diabolical  in  the  way  she  had  guessed  his  pur- 
pose. He  began  to  construct  a  romantic  story  and  to  con- 
vince himself  that  she  was  in  love  with  him  herself  and  had 
spied  on  Madeleine.  That  meeting  in  the  street  was  a  queer 
affair. 

He  was  under  the  hotel  door  vaguely  remarking  that  it 
was  five  minutes  past  seven,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that 
the  phrase  might  not  have  been  very  profound  after  all. 
It  was  just  a  Parthian  shot;  while  he,  by  not  having 
laughed  it  off,  had  let  her  see  that  it  hit.  He  was  angry  at 
his  stupidity.  But  even  then  it  only  meant  that  he  was 
going  to  see  a  woman  ;  it  had  nothing  necessarily  to  do 
with  Madeleine.  He  was  at  the  door  of  his  room,  without 
any  knowledge  of  his  purpose.  Then  he  remembered. 

He  had  even  left  his  key  below  ;    he  had  not  asked 


14  STILL  LIFE 

whether  a  lady  had  called  to  see  him.  At  first  he  was 
frightened  to  go  downstairs ;  then  a  hungry  disappoint- 
ment swept  over  him,  and  he  bit  his  lip  to  stop  the  tears 
that  threatened.  Madeleine  had  never  come  ;  she  would 
never  come ,  he  had  lost  her  for  ever.  He  paused  on  the 
landing  for  many  minutes,  and  stiffened  himself  to  drive 
away  the  dizziness  that  invaded  him  when  he  slackened 
his  hold  upon  himself. 

It  was  long  before  he  was  steady  enough  to  descend  for 
his  key.  He  would  rest  a  little  before  asking  the  porter  if 
anybody  had  called  for  him.  He  crept  downstairs.  As  he 
picked  up  the  key,  someone  opened  the  door  of  the  bureau 
and  addressed  him.  He  listened  to  a  voice. 

"  A  lady  called  to  see  you  twice  to-day,  sir.  Once  at 
noon,  and  just  now  at  seven  o'clock.  She  wouldn't  wait. 
She  left  this  note  for  you." 

Maurice  took  the  note.  It  was  better  not  to  go  upstairs 
again.  He  replaced  the  key.  And  with  the  note  in  his 
hand  left  the  hotel.  He  dared  not  open  the  envelope,  but 
crumpled  it  lightly  in  his  pocket  as  he  wandered  through 
the  streets,  trying  to  keep  himself  firm  against  the  anguish 
that  would  burst  his  brain. 

Sometime  after  midnight  he  managed  to  open  the  letter  : 
"  Maurice,"  it  ran,  "  tu  m'a  cassais  le  cceur.  Tu  me  trou- 
veras  jamais."  He  knew  that  he  could  not  look  for  her. 
He  would  never  find  her.  The  search  needed  strength  and 
he  had  none.  He  sat  down  upon  a  bench  in  the  street  and 
sobbed. 

He  felt  somebody  behind  him.  A  woman  touched  him, 
and  as  he  looked  up,  said,  "  Bon  soir,  mon  petit."  Then 
she  suddenly  changed  her  tone.  "  Quelqu'un  t'a  fait  du 
mal  ?  "  He  rose  and  hurried  on. 

Now  he  was  alone  in  the  world,  he  thought,  with  a 
sorrow  more  than  he  could  bear  ;  and  at  the  moment  that 
his  thought  began  once  more,  he  became  a  third  person 
watching  himself  walk  up  the  street  with  hanging  head, 
too  utterly  cast  down  to  feel  anything  but  the  throbbing 


STILL  LIFE  15 

of  his  own  pain.  He  regarded  himself  first  with  interest, 
then  with  complacence.  He  had  become  a  hero  to  himself, 
a  man  of  magnificent  sorrow,  uncomprehended  by  the 
crowd  of  ordinary  men  that  hemmed  his  life  about.  Quickly 
he  destroyed  the  picture,  taking  pleasure  in  the  thorough- 
ness of  his  own  work  of  destruction,  but  the  feeling  of 
satisfaction  remained,  slowly  defining  itself  into  self-con- 
gratulation. Yes,  he  was  well  out  of  it.  What  he  would 
never  have  had  the  courage  to  do,  had  come  of  its  own 
motion.  He  was  glad.  He  turned  upon  himself  ruthlessly, 
pointing  the  finger  of  scorn  at  a  victory  won  by  the  excess 
of  cowardice  alone.  He  was  climbing  the  hotel  stairs  once 
more  when  the  debate  in  his  heart  was  at  its  fiercest.  He 
had  won  by  cowardice.  Yes,  but  he  had  won,  by  whatever 
weapons,  and  he  was  free.  He  was  bathed  in  a  flood  of 
self-pity  for  his  loneliness,  for  a  freedom  which  he  could 
not  use.  He  needed  the  idea,  rather  the  possibility  of  Made- 
leine to  support  him,  and  the  selfishness  of  his  preoccupa- 
tion forced  him  to  an  outburst  of  commiseration  for  her. 
Slowly  he  reconstructed  her  day,  the  blind  anguish  of  her 
two  vain  visits  to  his  room,  the  sudden  sense  that  that 
whereon,  in  spite  of  all  misgivings,  she  had  leaned,  was 
void.  He  would  go  to  find  her ;  he  was  not  a  traitor  after 
all.  The  thought  of  her  suffering  would  dog  him  for  ever 
through  life.  He  would  tell  her  that  everything  was  right, 
for  he  loved  her  still ;  he  knew  that  she  would  in  the  end 
believe  him.  He  heard  her  cry  :  "  Oh,  Maurice." 

He  did  not  move  from  his  room,  saying  that  he  could  not 
hope  to  find  her  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  knowing 
that  he  did  not  intend  to  throw  his  victory  away. 

A  few  more  days  in  Paris  passed  mistily  before  him  as 
though  he  looked  at  them  through  frosted  glass.  He  saw 
many  friends,  and  talked  with  them  intelligently,  trying 
in  particular  to  convey  to  a  painter  the  outline  of  a  new 
aesthetic  which  was  being  expounded  at  Bologna.  He  was 
even  surprised  at  the  clearness  with  which  ideas  unrolled 
themselves  before  his  mind,  and  wondered  at  the  unac- 


16  STILL  LIFE 

customed  precision  with  which  he  used  blunted  and 
familiar  phrases,  until  he  realised  that  such  things  were 
no  longer  real  to  him.  The  impatience  he  felt  with  those 
who  listened  to  him  was  not  the  old  impatience  to  make 
a  chaotic  and  heartfelt  creed  plain  to  another  mind ; 
rather  he  was  beset  by  an  anxiety  to  keep  another  idea 
from  him,  which  threatened  at  every  moment  of  slackened 
attention  to  invade  the  barrier  of  his  careful  defences. 

He  was  afraid  of  a  letter  that  might  come  to  him.  He 
was  sick  with  fear  that  Madeleine  would  write  no  letter  to 
him.  He  could  not  suffer  this  twisted  thread,  yet  the  only 
continuous  in  his  life,  finally  to  be  broken.  Even  the  know- 
ledge that  she  was  in  a  slow  torment  of  suspense,  or  that  her 
pain  was  so  great  that  she  was  driven  to  express  it  in  a  cry 
of  despair,  would  be,  he  knew  when  he  was  honest,  precious 
to  him.  Even  the  extreme  of  her  sorrow  bound  them 
together,  for  she  grieved  for  him. 

No  letter  came.  As  he  stood  in  the  clear  sunlight  that 
shone  through  the  carriage  window,  looking  out  upon  the 
cardboard  country  that  lay  between  Paris  and  the  sea, 
listening  to  the  beat  of  the  train  upon  the  rails,  which  had 
no  message,  he  wondered  whether  there  was  any  strange 
element  in  that  grey  and  unreal  earth  which  might  attract 
men's  souls  and  hold  them  fast ;  for  he  puzzled  how,  some 
few  miles  back  along  the  railway  over  which  he  was  being 
borne,  there  could  be  a  place  where  strange  and  tremendous 
happenings  had  overtaken  him. 

A  comfortable  cure,  shepherding  a  company  of  school- 
boys who  pestered  him  with  unnaturally  precocious  ques- 
tions, paused  in  the  munching  of  his  sandwich. 

"  Oui,  elle  n'est  pas  mal,  la  France," 


CHAPTER  II 

MAURICE  shook  himself  awake  and  wandered  about  his 
room,  peering  at  the  titles  of  his  books,  bending  occasionally 
over  the  table  to  see  what  manner  of  book  he  had  been 
reading  and  turning  over  his  paper  to  assure  himself  that 
something  had  been  written.  The  room  was  small,  perched 
high  in  the  air  to  glimpse  the  Thames  from  the  south  ;  the 
books  were  many,  ranged  carefully  in  regular  shelves  upon 
every  wall,  surrounding  him  as  with  a  fence  against  the 
world.  He  made  the  circuit  three  or  four  times,  sometimes 
taking  one  out  to  read  the  scrupulous  inscription,  some- 
times flicking  the  back  of  one  with  his  finger-nail  and 
addressing  it  with  serious  concentration.  While  he 
regarded  them  he  became  slowly  bemused.  Though  his 
books  had  long  been  his  familiar  and  only  friends,  they 
appeared  strange  to  him.  He  began  to  stare  at  each  one 
as  though  fascinated  by  it.  They  seemed  to  grow  large 
while  he  watched  and  to  become  terrible — mute  and  grim 
and  silent. 

The  dusk  of  an  evening  in  earliest  spring  had  descended 
quickly,  and  with  the  dusk  came  silence,  palpable  and 
chill.  Maurice  felt  that  he  dared  not  pause  or  the  silence 
would  invade  him.  He  began,  almost  feverishly,  to  speak  ; 
yet  he  did  not  speak  aloud  :  he  dared  not.  He  bent  down 
over  a  book  and  whispered  venomously  to  it :  "I  hate  you 
...  I  hate  you."  He  held  his  breath  perilously,  and  waited 
for  the  book  to  strike  him.  While  he  waited  tense  and  in- 
flexible, forjbis  punishment,  the  still  silence  broke  in  upon 
him.  |ForJ[a  moment  he  strove  against  it  vehemently, 
as  though  it  were  some  malignant  impulse  of  his  own  mind 
which  sought  to  destroy  all  the  house  of  ideas  that  he  had 
c  17 


18  STILL  LIFE 

so  laboriously  constructed.    He  talked  rapidly  to  himself 
to  gain  time  to  collect  his  strength. 

"  What  have  you  made  of  it  all  since  ?  Cut  out  women 
and  go  for  the  rest ;  shut  yourself  up  with  books  ;  worry 
about  ideas.  Oh,  yes,  you've  cut  out  women,  and  you're 
so  frightened  of  them  that  you're  absolutely  their  slave. 
Your  mind  is  shaped  by  the  thing  you  want  to  exclude. 
You've  shut  yourself  up  with  books,  and  you  never  know 
whether  you  believe  in  them  or  not.  You  are  certain  now 
that  the  whole  business  is  a  plant  on  humanity.  You've 
worried  about  ideas,  and  you  haven't  one  left.  You  mis- 
trust it  before  ever  it's  born.  You  think  and  you  don't 
believe  in  thinking.  The  only  thing  solid  you've  got  left 
is  a  mad  desire  to  keep  women  out  of  it.  What  the  devil 
have  you  got  left  ?  " 

He  banged  his  fist  on  the  table,  and  the  noise  re-echoing 
round  his  room  awoke  him  to  his  attempt  at  self-decep- 
tion. He  could  no  longer  keep  the  silence  away  :  it  thrust 
to  his  heart.  He  bowed  his  head  upon  the  table  and 
sobbed,  "  I'm  too  lonely  ...  I  can't  ...  I  can't.  .  .  ." 
Slowly  he  raised  himself.  He  grimaced  at  himself  in  the 
mirror  above  his  mantelpiece,  and  was  chilled  by  the 
despair  in  his  own  face  ;  he  moved  round  to  the  window 
with  the  indeterminate  idea  of  making  sure  that  there  was 
something  outside. 

The  lights  on  a  barge  crawled  along  the  embankment 
edge  silently,  touched  by  tremulous  blades  of  light  from 
the  lamps  on  the  other  bank,  where  the  trams  moved  in 
and  out  of  the  black  arms  of  the  trees.  He  listened  to  each 
distinct  stroke  from  a  clock,  and  wondered  why  it  stopped. 
A  frozen  shiver  passed  through  him.  It  was  useless  to  look 
out^upon  a  dead  waste  where  nothing  was  warm  with 
welcome  for  him ;  yet  he  dared  not  turn  round.  He 
flattened  his  nose  against  the  panes  and  shut  his  eyes ; 
then  holding  himself  rigid  and  upright,  suddenly  he  turned 
about  as  he  had  learned  as  a  school  cadet,  counting  the 
movements,  one,  two,  three.  "  That's  all  right,"  he  said. 


STILL  LIFE  19 

"  Four."  He  opened  his  eyes.  His  room  was  the  same. 
In  banging  the  table,  he  had  scattered  a  few  sheets  of  paper 
on  the  floor.  "  Why  didn't  I  learn  drill  for  this  ?  "  he  said 
as  he  began  to  pick  them  up,  ceremonially,  one  by  one. 
"  Drill,  that's  what  I  want.  Something  to  do  because  you 
have  to,  without  worrying  what  it  means,  or  whether 
there's  a  better  way."  He  got  on  to  his  feet  again.  Then, 
with  profound  conviction  :  "  Yes,  that's  a  good  idea.  Why 
on  earth  don't  people  make  a  drill  for  life,  to  keep  you  from 
thinking  about  it  ?  ...  Oh,  but  people  do  have  drill, 
offices  and  families  and  police  regulations.  .  .  .  Why  on 
earth  don't  I  go  to  an  office  all  day  ?  ...  It  wouldn't  be  any 
good,  though,  I'll  see  through  the  drill.  ...  It  would  only 
suit  me  sometimes — just  now."  He  was  disappointed  as  a 
child  with  an  engine  that  will  not  work  ;  but  pleased  with 
the  success  of  his  manoeuvre  at  the  window.  The  engine 
certainly  would  run  sometimes.  A  rap  at  the  door  did  not 
startle  him  at  all. 

"  A  letter  for  you,  sir,  and  I  was  to  remind  you  that  you 
had  to  go  out  to  dinner  this  evening.  I've  brought  the  hot 
water." 

He  did  not  like  the  look  of  the  letter.  It  was  in  his 
mother's  handwriting.  It  was  sure  to  be  an  accusation  or 
reproach  ;  he  never  had  any  other  kind  of  letter.  He  put 
it  into  a  book  that  lay  on  the  table,  for  by  experience  he 
knew  that  there  was  no  more  likely  way  to  forget  it  com- 
pletely. The  engagement  to  dinner  with  Cradock  cheered 
him  with  the  idea  that  he  would  be  opposite  to  human 
beings  during  the  evening  and  attending  to  their  conversa- 
tion ;  besides,  he  would  now  be  preoccupied  with  getting 
ready  and  finding  his  way  to  Kensington.  He  made  his 
preparations  with  care,  knowing  the  misery  which  oppressed 
him  when  he  was  conscious  of  being  badly  dressed.  He 
talked  to  himself  incessantly,  pausing  between  each 
separate  remark. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  would  be  like  to  be  Cradock  for  a 
month  or  two.  .  .  It  must  be  rather  fine  to  be  a  dramatic 


20  STILL  LIFE 

critic  .  .  .  especially  if  you  are  one  of  the  Cradock  kind.  .  .  . 
He  knows  exactly  what  a  play  should  be,  and  never  has 
any  misgivings  about  his  competence,  never  thinks  why 
the  devil  do  people  write  plays,  and  why  the  devil  does  he 
get  paid  for  saying  whether  they  are  good  or  bad.  .  .  .  It's 
quite  impossible  to  bring  off  a  rear  attack  on  him.  .  .  .  You 
can  blow  him  into  smithereens,  but  he  doesn't  know  any- 
thing about  it.  ...  He's  serious  as  though  a  pair  of  full- 
blown dramatic  critics  came  out  of  the  Ark.  ...  Of  course 
he  wins  :  he  knows  what  he's  in  the  business  for,  pays  his 
taxes,  dreams  of  Aristotle,  and  is  awfully  decent  to  me. .  .  . 
Yes,  I  should  like  to  be  Cradock." 

By  the  time  he  was  brushing  his  overcoat,  Maurice  con- 
ceived the  Cradocks'  house  in  South  Kensington  as  a  secure 
Elysium,  and  was  happy  that  he  was  going  there.  Con- 
siderations of  Cradock  comfortably  accompanied  him 
through  the  bewildering  railways,  without  his  having 
satisfied  his  curiosity  concerning  the  problem  how  a 
Cradock  begins  to  be  a  Cradock,  and  why  if  he  were  to  put 
fundamental  questions  to  Cradock  with  transparent  clear- 
ness, Cradock  would  be  sure  to  laugh  at  them  as  amusing 
and  ridiculous  imaginations.  Yet  though  Cradock  laughed 
and  he  was  convinced  that  Cradock  was  very  stupid,  he 
never  felt  angry  with  him.  He  liked  going  to  see  Cradock 
in  his  office  when  he  was  there,  and  enjoyed  lunching  with 
him,  because  he  spread  an  indescribable  kindly  warmth 
about.  Maurice  solemly  classified  his  acquaintances  by 
the  new  standard,  "  Do  I  like  him  or  him  as  much  as 
Cradock  ?  "  and  decided,  not  without  doubts,  that  Dennis 
Beauchamp  was  the  only  one  who  could  stand  the  test, 
because  Dennis  always  understood  at  the  point  where 
Cradock  would  have  laughed.  He  was  doubtful  about  the 
matter,  because  he  was  not  wholly  sure  that  he  preferred 
being  understood  to  being  laughed  at  in  Cradock's  way. 
It  was  hard  to  choose  between  being  considered  a  curious 
man  by  Dennis  and  a  curious  child  by  Cradock.  Dennis 
gave  him  responsibilities,  Cradock  comforted  him  with  a 


STILL  LIFE  21 

tolerant  warmth.  He  had  not  remembered  before  that 
they  would  be  together  to-night,  nor  that  this  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  visited  Cradock  in  his  home.  The  an- 
ticipated pleasure  excited  him,  and  he  was  grateful  to 
Cradock  for  having  invited  Dennis  and  himself.  "  Just 
like  him." 

He  swung  the  gate  to,  finding  pleasure  in  the  noise  he 
made.  The  green  and  white  of  the  house-front  pleased 
him.  It  was  clean  and  cool  and  very  honest.  He  remem- 
bered just  in  time  to  prevent  himself  from  giving  the 
polished  bell-handle  a  violent  tug. 

He  was  almost  ashamed  of  the  enthusiasm  with  which 
he  shook  Cradock's  hand,  and  had  it  not  been  for  a  sense 
of  well-being  which  made  him  take  particular  delight  in 
the  soft  tread  of  the  carpet,  the  clean  comfort  of  the  arm- 
chairs, and  above  all  in  the  unobtrusive  warmth  of 
Cradock's  greeting,  shame  at  his  own  exuberance  would 
have  shadowed  him  during  the  evening.  Leaning  back 
lazily  in  a  chair  he  enjoyed  his  own  sense  of  safety,  as  he 
watched  Cradock's  tall  broad  form  move  out  of  the  room, 
and  for  some  seconds  the  meaning  of  the  words  "  My  wife 
will  be  down  in  a  minute  "  did  not  reach  him.  When  he 
did  understand  them,  his  first  and  ordinary  impulse  to 
speculate  what  manner  of  woman  Mrs.  Cradock  was,  and 
to  deduce  her  from  the  arrangement  of  the  room  was 
quickly  spent,  absorbed  by  his  pervading  indolence. 
Nevertheless  he  sought  to  excuse  his  own  inactivity. 
"  The  room  hasn't  got  any  personality  ;  it's  just  comfort- 
able. There  must  be  thousands  like  it.  Next  door  is 
probably  the  same,  outside  and  in."  The  bell  tinkled  far 
away ;  and  muffled  voices  reached  to  him.  "  It  can't  be 
Dennis.  There  are  two  of  them." 

Soon  after,  Cradock  ushered  in  a  tall  man,  who  might 
have  been  a  colonel,  and  his  wife,  a  small  slim  woman 
dressed  in  a  new  Early- Victorian  fashion,  who  was  raptur- 
ously appreciating  a  drawing  by  the  door,  before  she 
noticed  Maurice's  presence.  The  words,  "  Mrs.  Fortescue. 


22  STILL  LIFE 

.  .  .  Mr.  Fortescue  ..."  cut  in  upon  his  reflection  that 
he  knew  nothing  about  colonels  after  all,  that  Mr.  Fortescue 
sounded  as  well  as  Colonel  Fortescue,  that  perhaps  neither 
of  them  knew  the  mediaeval  pun  which  served  them  as  a 
motto.  He  pulled  himself  together  enough  to  realise  that 
he  was  waiting  for  Mrs.  Fortescue  to  speak. 

"  I  love  this  really  modern  art.  Don't  you,  Mr.  Temple  ? 9> 
She  pointed  vaguely  with  her  fan  towards  the  picture,  as 
though  to  show  that  the  introduction  had  been  no  more 
than  a  momentary  interruption  in  the  sequence  of  her 
thought.  "  It's  so  alive.  It's  quite  a  mental  tonic." 

"  Yes.  .  .  ."  Maurice  was  insisting  upon  her  first 
question,  though  she  expected  no  answer.  He  felt  that  he 
must  crystallise  his  dispersed  faculties  upon  this  con- 
versation. ..."  But  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  I  know 
what  modern  art  is."  He  must  gather  himself  together, 
even  if  he  had  to  be  ponderous.  "  I  suppose  the  really 
modern  art  is  good  because  it  attaches  to  some  tradition, 
after  all.  Or  do  you  think  the  tonic  quality  is  something 
quite  new  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you're  too  deep," — Mrs.  Fortescue  had  immedi- 
ately conceived  a  dislike  for  him  for  his  suggested  opposi- 
tion, and  was  trying  to  cover  her  aversion  by  playfulness. 
"  I  never  think  about  things, — at  any  rate,  not  in  that 
way.  I  mean  that  I  never  took  any  interest  in  pictures 
before  these  modern  artists  began  to  do  these  things. 
Now  I'm  absorbed.  Besides  I  know  quite  a  lot  of  them. 
They  are  so  interesting  when  they  tell  you  about  their 
ideas ;  it  gives  you  a  feeling  that  you  are  mixed  up  in 
what  is  being  done." 

"  Yes  ...  I  suppose  it  does.  ...  I  don't  know  very 
much  about  it.  But  what  are  their  ideas  ?  "  Maurice  felt 
that  he  would  enjoy  being  hated  by  her  for  trying  to  make 
her  ridiculous  to  herself.  "I'm  really  interested." 

"  Oh,  colour."  She  halted  a  minute,  then  ran  smoothly 
into  a  remembered  phrase.  "  The  world  is  self-conscious 
and  afraid  of  its  own  impulses.  Modern  art  is  the  outcome 


STILL  LIFE  23 

of  a  desire  to  bring  back  colour  as  a  source  of  pleasure  in 
itself." 

"  Oh,  a  return  to  the  savages." 

"  Exactly."  She  was  secure  now,  having  received  her 
cue.  "It  is  ridiculous  to  imagine  we  are  superior  to 
savages  in  everything.  We're  effete.  The  only  thing  to 
do  is  to  go  back  to  the  primitive,  uncontrolled  people. 
They're  splendid,  unconscious.  .  .  ." 

Maurice  wanted  to  continue ;  but  suddenly  he  had  a 
vision  of  himself  and  Mrs.  Fortescue,  Cradock  and  Mr. 
Fortescue,  arranged  mathematically  at  the  corners  of  a 
square,  one  diagonal  for  the  combatants,  the  other  for  the 
spectators.  It  was  absurd. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  go  well  with  the  furniture,"  said  Mr. 
Fortescue. 

Mrs.  Fortescue  made  an  impatient  movement  of  her 
head,  but  smiled  to  show  that  her  husband  amused 
her. 

Maurice  seized  the  opening.  "  No,"  he  said  seriously. 
"  I  suppose  it  is  difficult  to  find  suitable  stuff." 

"  Besides,"  said  Mr.  Fortescue,  "  even  if  you  could,  I 
hate  being  glared  at  by  a  picture.  It  may  be  all  right  for 
women.  They  can  dress  up  to  it.  We  can't." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Maurice.  "  After  all,  it's  taken  a 
long  while  to  get  where  we  have,  and  we  can't  suddenly 
go  back  on  it.  Our  furniture  shows  the  way  we've  gone 
during  the  last  three  hundred  years ;  and  if  our  pictures 
won't  go  with  our  furniture,  it  only  shows  that  there's 
something  wrong  with  the  pictures." 

Maurice  was  pleased  with  the  argument,  for  he  knew  it 
was  irritating  Mrs.  Fortescue.  He  was  yet  more  pleased 
with  the  approval  of  her  husband,  for  that  irritated  her 
yet  more. 

"  It's  all  right  in  moderation."  Cradock,  as  ever,  was 
pronouncing  the  award.  "  It's  been  a  good  protest  against 
dullness,  at  any  rate.  I  think  it  has  accomplished  some- 
thing of  its  own  too."  The  bell  was  tinkling  again.  "  Any- 


24  STILL  LIFE 

how,"  said  Cradock,  as  he  moved  towards  the  door,  "I've 
bought  some  of  them." 

Mrs.  Fortescue  was  not  satisfied.  Desiring  completely 
to  vindicate  herself,  she  was  explaining  to  Maurice  that  it 
was  impossible  to  judge  really  modern  pictures  apart  fiom 
their  appropriate  setting.  "  The  modern  idea  isn't  merely 
a  matter  of  hanging  a  picture  on  a  wall.  The  modern  picture 
is  part  of  a  larger  scheme  of  decoration." 

Somebody  was  laughing  in  the  hall.  Even  Mrs.  Fortsscue 
stopped  to  listen.  Maurice  was  relieved.  "That's  Cradock," 
he  said  to  himself,  "  laughing  at  Dennis's  face."  He  was 
himself  never  sure  whether  Dennis's  lugubrious  expression 
on  entering  a  room  was  assumed  or  natural ;  nor  could  he 
make  up  his  mind  on  this  occasion  when  he  saw  him  come 
slowly,  blinking,  into  the  room.  Maurice  was  impatient 
while  the  introductions  were  made,  even  slightly  annoyed 
that  the  Fortescues  should  claim  Dennis's  attention  for  a 
moment  while  he  was  in  the  room.  He  wondered  whether 
Dennis  felt  the  same.  "  1  suppose  not.  That  would  be 
too  much  to  expect."  Yet  he  was  vaguely  disappointed 
as  he  stretched  out  both  his  hands,  nor  was  he  wholly 
reassured  by  the  smile  he  saw  in  Dennis's  eyes. 

He  had  no  time  to  ask  him  what  he  had  been  doing  all 
day  before  the  door  once  more  opened  and  Mrs.  Cradock 
entered.  He  saw  Cradock  take  a  tremendous  stride  to  the 
door  to  hold  it  open  for  her,  and  for  the  moment  Mrs. 
Cradock  was  merged  in  the  evident  delight  which  Cradock 
took  in  serving  her.  Maurice  was  pleased  that  he  alone 
noticed  the  pretence  by  which  she  turned  as  though  to 
shut  the  door  herself,  and  thus  placed  her  hand  on  her 
husband's ;  and  then  he  turned  to  look  at  Cradock,  who 
watched  his  wife  greeting  the  Fortescues  with  an  obvious 
pride.  It  was  fine  that  two  people  should  be  so  much  in 
love,  even  though  they  had  been  married  years  and  years  ; 
it  proved  Cradock  must  be  a  wonderful  man.  Maurice 
could  not  prevent  a  touch  of  envy  creeping  into  his  ad- 
miration, as  he  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Cradock  and  re- 


STILL  LIFE  25 

marked  that  she  was  not  very  pretty,  at  least  not  pretty 
like  Mrs.  Fortescue,  than  whom  she  was  a  little  taller. 
More  than  this  he  thought  that  her  eyes  were  very  restful, 
and  her  hand  was  alive.  "  It  wouldn't  be  so  fine  if  she 
were  pretty,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Dennis  was  asking  him  what  he  thought  of  a  book. 
Maurice  tried  to  tell  him  while  they  descended  together  to 
dinner. 

During  dinner  Cradock  and  his  wife  took  infinite  delight 
in  cross-examining  Dennis,  who  was  on  the  staff  of  a 
hospital,  concerning  the  fortune  he  was  making ;  and 
Dennis  grimly  talked  of  the  enormous  incomes  successful 
doctors  earned.  Mrs.  Fortescue,  who  had  been  certain 
that  he  was  a  writer,  was  prevented  by  her  new  know- 
ledge from  taking  any  interest  in  the  conversation ; 
Mrs.  Cradock  after  an  abortive  attempt  to  rouse  her, 
applied  herself  the  more  intently  to  probing  Dennis's 
mind.  For  a  long  while  Maurice  entered  into  the  game 
with  absorption,  making  exaggerated  statements  concern- 
ing a  house-surgeon's  fees,  immensely  satisfied  that 
Mrs.  Cradock  made  no  vain  attempts  to  interest  Mrs. 
Fortescue. 

"  What  do  you  really  believe  in,  Mr.  Beauchamp  ?  " 
Mrs.  Cradock  asked  Dennis. 

"  Nothing  at  all."  Unconsciously  he  beamed,  then 
recollecting  the  nature  of  his  reply,  looked  depressed. 
"  Nothing  at  all." 

"  But  you  must  believe  in  the  good  of  sawing  people's 
legs  off  ;  you  do  it  so  well." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Cradock,"  there  was  an  expostulatory 
roll  in  his  voice,  "  it's  precisely  because  I  don't  believe  in 
it  that  I  do  it  at  all  well.  If  I  did  believe  in  it,  I  might  be 
enthusiastic  and  lose  my  head  in  a  man's  stomach.  As  it 
is,  I  consider  it  is  all  worthless,  keep  perfectly  indifferent, 
and  don't  kill  more  than  one  in  six." 

Mrs.  Fortescue  felt  that  Dennis  was  ordinary  and  vulgar. 

"  That  won't  do,  Dennis,"  pursued  Mrs.  Cradock.    "  Will 


26  STILL  LIFE 

it,  Jim  ?  "  She  turned  to  her  husband.  "  You  must  have 
a  reason  for  doing  doctor's  work  rather  than  any  other  ; 
no,  perhaps  you  haven't.  But  you  must  have  one  for 
doing  work  at  all  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  must  earn  my  living."    He  nearly  believed  it. 

"  Come,  you  know  you  don't  need  to." 

Mrs.  Fortescue  glanced  with  new  interest  at  Dennis. 

"  Oh,  it's  something  to  hang  on  to.  I  know  what  I  have 
to  do  for  eight  hours  of  the  day — or  the  night.  I  have  to 
sleep  another  eight — if  I  get  them.  And  eight  hours'  intro- 
spection is  just  not  enough  to  paralyse  me.  If  they  gave 
me  seven  hours'  work  a  day  instead,  the  Lord  alone  knows 
what  might  happen." 

"  I  am  certain  he  has  ideals,"  broke  in  Maurice,  "  of 
perfect  operations,  of  appendices  cut  out  with  one  sweep 
of  the  knife,  and  an  indestructible  digestive  apparatus  in 
silver.  ..."  He  suddenly  stopped.  Dennis  was  protest- 
ing. Nobody  had  noticed  anything.  Maurice  knew  that 
he  had  nothing  to  say,  that  what  he  had  said  was  cheap 
and  that  Dennis  recognised  it,  and  he  wanted  to  find  out 
what  was  the  matter  with  himself.  He  had  spoken  because 
he  had  wanted  to  share  Mrs.  Cradock's  conversation,  and 
to  hear  her  address  him  as  Mr.  Temple.  It  was  not  that 
she  was  charming,  or  that  her  eyes  were  kindly  and  pro- 
found, for  he  could  hardly  see  them  in  the  shade ;  but 
rather  that  in  her  voice  and  in  her  manner  of  handling 
Dennis  there  was  the  suggestion  that  she  was  sure  of  her- 
self, that  there  was  in  her  mind  something  achieved  that 
maintained  her  and  allowed  her  to  judge  securely.  Maurice 
felt  that  if  he  could  attract  her  attention  and  hold  it  he 
would  feel  an  access  of  strength,  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
worth  something.  The  idea  began  to  dominate  him  while 
he  watched  her  surely  and  swiftly  forcing  Dennis  to  confess 
that  he  did  believe  in  something.  He  saw  that  Dennis  too 
was  anxious  to  justify  himself  to  her :  he  heard  Dennis 
confess  that  always  he  was  certain  of  one  thing,  that  he 
believed  in  poetry ;  he  heard  him  break  into  some  verses 


STILL  LIFE  27 

of  Shelley  as  though  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world.  He  was  following  the  impulse  of  Dennis's  mind  as 
though  it  was  his  own.  It  was  his  own.  He  wanted  to 
speak  in  his  defence,  to  prove  to  Mrs.  Cradock  that  there 
was  something  in  him. 

At  the  sound  of  the  poetry  Mrs.  Fortescue  looked 
towards  her  husband,  and  the  lift  of  her  eyebrow  was  by 
ever  so  little  extravagant.  Maurice  caught  the  glance,  and 
thought  that  he  just  stopped  himself  from  saying  "  Damn 
you."  He  wondered  what  had  come  over  the  dinner- 
party. He  could  not  look  at  Mrs.  Fortescue,  for  he  loathed 
her,  or  her  husband,  who  he  knew  was  trying  to  look  as 
though  he  was  accustomed  to  such  things,  or  at  Dennis,  for 
now  his  sympathy  had  changed  to  a  burning  jealousy,  or 
at  Mrs.  Cradock,  for  fear  that  he  would  call  out  to  her  : 
"  Please  let  me  speak  "  ;  so  ke  stared  intently  at  Cradock, 
and  was  thankful  that  he  was  still  absorbed  in  contempla- 
tion of  his  wife,  or  at  least  still  regarding  her  every  move- 
ment. Perhaps  it  was  all  ridiculous  after  all.  Dennis  was 
still  reciting  poetry.  Maurice  was  sure  he  was  making  a 
fool  of  himself,  that  the  poetry  would  go  on  and  on  for 
ever.  Oh,  why  didn't  he  stop  ?  Someone  would  laugh  and 
then  he  would  go  mad.  He  would  laugh  himself.  "  For 
God's  sake  don't  laugh,  don't.  .  .  ."  He  bit  his  Irps,  for 
he  might  cry  or  laugh  aloud.  Everything  was  perfectly 
still.  Nothing  had  ever  been  alive.  "  Don't  laugh.  .  .  . 
Oh,  God  .  .  .  don't  laugh.  .  .  ."  Dennis's  lips  were  not 
moving  at  all.  Yet  he  heard  a  sound,  equable,  monotonous, 
eternal.  A  line  slowly  printed  on  his  brain  : 

"  The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away." 

Something  in  him  seemed  to  crack  with  the  sound  of 
falling  glass.  He  was  standing  up  trying  to  wipe  the  wine 
that  was  spilled  over  the  cloth.  He  heard  himself  making 
far-off  excuses  as  he  left  the  room. 

He  held  the  bannisters,  saying  weakly  to  himself,  "  No, 
I'm  not  often  like  that.  .  .  .  Yes.  that  was  a  sonnet.  .  .  . 


28  STILL  LIFE 

Ozymandias.  ...  It  did  take  a  long  while.  ..."  He 
could  nothing  do  but  laugh  feebly,  even  while  he  bathed 
himself  in  cold  water.  Plunging  his  face  in  the  basin,  he 
was  laughing  still,  and  wondering  whether  it  would  be 
very  different  if  he  never  moved.  In  a  moment  he  was  quite 
calm,  not  even  caring  to  think  how  it  had  all  happened. 
He  heard  a  door  open,  and  kept  perfectly  still,  curious  to 
know  what  the  voices  were  saying.  It  was  Cradock  and 
his  wife. 

"  Poor  chap,"  he  heard  the  low-pitched  words  of  Cradock. 
"  I've  never  known  him  like  that  before.  Perhaps  the 
room  was  too  hot." 

"  Perhaps,"  came  the  whispered  answer,  "  but  I  don't 
think  it  was  that.  I  hope  he's  not  ill.  He's  a  nice  boy. 
Where  is  he  though  ?  I  can't  hear  anything.  ..." 

Maurice  rattled  the  door,  and  stamped  about  so  that  they 
should  hear  him.  He  plunged  his  face  in  the  water  again 
and  heaved  a  long  sigh  of  relief  "  Ha-a-a  "  as  he  withdrew 
it,  splashing,  to  let  them  know  that  he  was  all  right  again. 
The  door  of  the  dining-room  opened  and  shut  very  quietly. 
Mrs.  Cradock  had  returned  to  the  table.  Then  came  a 
knock  at  the  bathroom  door,  and  Cradock's  kindly  voice. 

"  Are  you  all  right  ?    Nothing  serious,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all.  I  am  quite  fit,"  he  sang  out,  cheer- 
fully. Then,  opening  the  door,  and  laying  his  hand  on 
Cradock's  arm.  "  I'm  very  sorry.  I  don't  know  what  it 
was.  I've  been  like  it  once  before."  He  knew  that  was  a 
lie  ;  but  he  felt  happy  with  "  He's  a  ntce  boy  "  sounding 
insistently  in  his  ears,  and  he  did  not  want  to  worry  any- 
body with  the  idea  that  he  had  been  really  ill.  As  they 
entered  the  room,  Mrs.  Cradock  and  Mrs.  Fortescue  were 
about  to  leave,  and  in  the  general  motion  and  the  hurried 
answers  to  sympathetic  enquiries,  Maurice  found  himself 
in  his  chair,  leaning  forward  as  though  nothing  had 
happened. 

He  tried  to  say  to  Dennis  that  he  was  sorry  for  being 
such  a  fool,  but  he  saw  in  Dennis's  face  that  he  had  been 


STILL  LIFE  29 

anxious  and  disturbed.  Therefore  Maurice  merely  smiled 
energetically.  Mr.  Fortescue  was  a  little  afraid  of  him, 
and  told  what  must  have  been  a  long-familiar  story  of 
Jesus  under  Jelks  with  less  than  what  must  have  been  his 
usual  ease.  Then  Cradock  asked  Dennis  his  opinion  con- 
cerning a  play,  and  Maurice  purposely  returned  to  the  safe 
subject  of  English  furniture,  for  he  was  anxious,  for  some 
unknown  reason,  to  vindicate  his  complete  sanity  to  Mr. 
Fortescue.  Nevertheless  the  atmosphere  was  still  con- 
strained as  they  rose  to  go  to  the  drawing-room. 

Maurice  would  have  given  anything  to  know  what  Mrs. 
Cradock  and  Mrs.  Fortescue  had  said  about  him.  They 
must  have  talked  about  him,  and  he  was  sure  that  Mrs. 
Fortescue  had  led  off  the  attack,  and  equally  he  felt  sure 
that  Mrs.  Cradock  had  defended  him.  Only  he  wanted  to 
know  exactly  the  words  she  had  used  about  him  :  he  did 
not  even  care  whether  she  had  meant  them,  or  whether, 
as  was  probable,  she  had  praised  him  only  because  Mrs. 
Fortescue  referred  to  him  slightingly.  Sincere  or  not,  the 
fundamental  intention  was  the  same.  She  had  defended 
him  against  an  enemy,  and  he  knew  he  was  safe  with  her. 
All  that  he  wanted  was  the  very  words,  so  that  he  could 
use  them  to  comfort  himself,  saying  them  to  himself  in  her 
voice.  That  was  impossible  ;  but  he  was  happy. 


CHAPTER  III 

MAURICE  felt  even  careless  as  he  stood  by  the  fire  and 
watched,  a  little  remotely,  the  faces  in  front  of  him,  Dennis 
being  made  wretched  by  Mrs.  Fortescue's  incessant  ques- 
tions concerning  his  prospects  and  his  aristocratic  friends, 
Mr.  Fortescue  still  inclined  to  resent  having  been  brought 
into  such  incalculable  company,  Cradock  not  able  wholly 
to  conceal  his  pleasure  that  his  wife  was  dominating,  not 
tyrannically,  the  whole  party,  and  Mrs.  Cradock  calm  and 
restful,  but  perhaps  still  rather  concerned  about  himself, 
Maurice.  It  was  some  seconds  before  he  realised  that  Mrs. 
Fortescue  was  again  stridently  concerned  with  modern 
art. 

"  It's  such  a  refreshing  change  from  what  we've  been 
used  to.  I  think  the  idea  that  all  the  young  men  should 
suddenly  find  themselves  perfectly  free  from  the  terrible 
influence  of  tradition  is  wonderful.  It  means  that  we 
shan't  have  any  more  foolish  attempts  to  carve  Greek 
heads,  and  that  alone  will  be  a  relief,  won't  it  ?  " 

No  one  made  any  haste  to  answer,  and  she  continued  : 
"  For  my  part,  I  never  could  see  anything  in  them  ;  but 
only  nowadays  I  can  dare  to  say  that  openly.  One  doesn't 
need  to  have  any  excuse  for  not  liking  the  National  Gallery 
or  the  British  Museum." 

"  But  perhaps  you're  only  waiting  for  some  new  modern 
art  to  turn  up,  to  say  that  you  don't  really  like 
this  ?  "  said  Dennis,  quietly  malevolent.  "  But,  honestly, 
I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything  about  these  things." 

"  No  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Fortescue,  icily. 

Dennis  was  quelled  and  silent,  realising  it  was  hopeless 
to  put  up  a  fight  with  the  woman  on  her  own  ground.  He 


STILL  LIFE  31 

turned  eagerly  to  Mrs.  Cradock  who  was  addressing  Mrs. 
Fortescue,  and  he  wondered  whether  the  gentleness  of  her 
tone  was  purely  cynical. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  she  said,  "  but  I  really  do  get 
something  out  of  those  statues,  you  know.  I  feel  very  calm 
and  quiet  in  front  of  them.  All  I  know  about  modern  art 
is  that  I  don't  generally  feel  like  that  in  front  of  it,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  unless  I  can  feel  that  it  isn't  art  ...  of 
course,  that  only  means  it  isn't  what  I  want." 

As  soon  as  he  heard  Mrs.  Cradock's  voice,  Maurice  was 
eager  to  join  the  conversation  ;  he  felt  that  he  was  burst- 
ing with  things  to  say  to  an  understanding  mind.  "  I 
think  I  know  what  you  mean,  Mrs.  Cradock,"  he  said  with 
an  effort,  abruptly.  "  Don't  you  feel  that  some  of  them 
have  what  they  give  to  you  ?  "  His  advance  was  headlong. 
"  I  mean,  that  their  heads  really  have  the  same  security 
which  you  feel  in  yourself.  It's  like  a  human  sympathy 
suddenly  established  between  two  minds.  You're  con- 
scious— at  least  I  mean  I  am — that  you  lack  something 
which  really  belongs  to  you  by  right,  and  those  heads  not 
only  have  it,  but  they  can  give  it  to  you  for  a  moment  at 
least.  Afterwards,  you  realise  how  far  you  fall  short  of  the 
thing  desired,  and  realise  it  far  more  painfully  than  before, 
but  I  don't  think  you  regret  it  at  all.  I  know  I  used  to  say 
that  I  only  got  that  moment  any  security  out  of  a  work  of 
art ;  but  I'm  not  sure  about  that  now.  ...  I'm  not  sure 
about  anything,  you  know."  At  the  instant  he  thought 
that  he  had  done  a  foolish  thing.  He  had  been  hovering 
on  the  narrow  edge  between  keen  self-consciousness  and 
the  unconsciousness  with  which  Mrs.  Cradock's  presence 
seemed  always  to  threaten  him.  He  had  been  talking  to 
her,  and  he  had  made  a  confession  to  her  alone.  He  did 
not  want  those  cruel  and  idiot  Fortescues  to  hear  it.  He 
was  even  blushing.  Particular  words  that  he  had  used 
seemed  to  quiver  like  a  nerve  exposed.  "  A  work  of  art." 
He  was  being  wounded  again  and  again  therein.  He  stared 
at  the  fender.  It  seemed  a  long  while  before  Dennis  took 


32  S^ILL  LIFE 

him  up,  and  while  Dennis  spoke,  he  gradually  became 
interested  and  confident  enough  to  raise  his  eyes.  Mrs. 
Cradock  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  gripping  the  arms 
rather  tightly  in  her  fingers,  watching  him  as  it  might  be 
anxiously.  He  wondered  what  she  was  anxious  about. 

"  I  think  that's  all  right,"  said  Dennis,  "  but  what  do  you 
mean  about  getting  the  feeling  of  security  from  a  work  of 
art? "  When  Dennis  had  said  the  word,  the  bare  nerve  was 
covered  again.  "  You  mean  you  get  it  from  other  things  ? 
What  are  they  ?  "  Then,  turning  to  Cradock  sitting  quietly 
in  a  chair,  on  the  side  of  the  fireplace  opposite  Maurice  : 
"  He's  probably  got  something  in  the  back  of  his  mind  he 
wants  to  get  out.  I  know  the  symptoms."  Cradock 
smiled,  gently  omniscient.  "  Let's  have  it,  Temple." 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Cradock  knows  more  about  it  than  I 
do.  .  .  ." 

She  said  nothing,  but  still  looked  at  him,  still  anxiously. 
Mrs.  Fortescue  was  plainly  contemptuous,  her  husband 
bored. 

"...  Besides,  in  any  case,  I  am  hopeless  at  explaining 
things."  He  shifted  nervously  against  the  mantelpiece. 
"  But  what  I'm  after  is  that  the  thing  you  get  out  of  one  of 
these  Greek  heads,  that  affects  you  most  profoundly,  isn't 
so  much  anything  actually  in  the  art  as  the  thing  that  the 
art  seems  to  assume  and  allow  for.  You  may  call  them 
beautiful  if  you  like,  but  whatever  that  beauty  may  be, 
it's  not  the  thing  that  hits  you.  ..." 

"  That's  exactly  the  idea  of  modern  art,  if  you  really 
look  into  it,"  said  Mrs.  Fortescue. 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  is,  only  I  haven't  seen  it. 
Perhaps,  too,  what  we  call  beauty  has  to  be  there  before 
you  can  realise  anything  of  what  the  artist  assumes  and 
allows  for.  At  any  rate,  I've  never  had  it  without  the 
thing  we  call  beauty. 

"  What  I  mean  is  some  state  of  the  mind  which  is  ex- 
pressed in  the  way  the  face  is  carved.  It's  generally  called 
repose,  or  calm,  or  dignity.  You  feel  that  you  might  have 


STILL  LIFE  33 

a  face  like  that  and  yet  be  worried  to  death  about  where 
you  were  going  to  get  the  money  for  to-morrow's  dinner ; 
but  if  you  had  a  mind  like  that  you  never  could  be  con- 
cerned about  those  things.  You  would  never  be  at  the 
mercy  of  life,  because  you  would  know  what  it  all  meant. 
Not  that  that's  anything  of  a  discovery,  because  you  can, 
if  you  really  look,  see  it  behind  most  things  that  are  written 
about  these  statues.  But  people  seem  to  confuse  it  all  very 
quickly  by  talking  about  the  divine,  and  saying  that  after 
all  they  are  statues  of  gods,  or  at  best  they  are  portraits 
of  idealised  men.  To  me  the  important  thing  is  not  that 
they  are  gods  or  idealised  men,  but  just  men — if  you  like, 
men  in  a  state  of  grace,  but  for  all  that  men,  and  the  spirit 
that  they  have  in  them  is  a  human  spirit.  The  strange 
thing  about  it  is  that  we  recognise  that  it  is  quite  different 
from  our  own,  and  yet  it  is  our  own.  We  haven't  got  it, 
but  we  believe  we  could  have  it,  and  that  we  were  meant 
to  have  it ;  and  that  if  we  had  it  we  shouldn't  be  contemp- 
tuous of  other  men  who  don't  think  the  same  things  as  we 
do  and  are  not  concerned  with  the  same  ideals,  but  we 
should  just  accept  them,  For  the  only  reason  why  we're 
contemptuous  of  other  people,  at  any  rate  I  know  the  only 
reason  why  I  am,  is  that  I'm  not  at  all  sure  of  myself. 

"  Contempt  is  a  kind  of  rotten  foundation  on  which  we 
build  a  little  tin  temple  where  we  bow  down  to  our  valuable 
selves.  We  have  to  endow  it  with  a  lot  of  spurious  sancti- 
ties before  we  can  deceive  ourselves  into  worshipping  there 
for  a  moment,  and  the  first  of  these  sanctities  is  to  convince 
ourselves  that  we're  somehow  different  from  the  rest.  Of 
course  it's  true  that  we  are,  but  that's  not  the  important 
thing.  The  important  thing  is  that  we're  the  same,  only 
perhaps  pushed  to  a  higher  degree.  The  idea  of  contempt 
is  that  the  difference  is  in  kind,  and  once  you've  really  got 
that  idea  working  inside  them,  it  seems  to  me  you're  con- 
demned not  merely  never  to  understand  but  to  make  what 
you  want  to  understand  utterly  unintelligible.  You're 
warped  from  the  very  beginning. 


34  STILL  LIFE 

"  The  heads,  on  the  other  hand,  have  something  different 
and  the  same  ;  and  the  thing  that  they  have  is  security  in 
the  soul.  I  call  it  harmony  in  the  soul,  because  I  learned 
the  phrase  somewhere  before  I  had  any  notion  what  it 
meant,  and  it  has  always  appealed  to  me.  That  is  what 
the  people  who  carved  them  assumed  and  allowed  for. 
You  can't  carve  a  harmony  in  the  soul,  but  you  can  believe 
in  it  and  leave  room  for  it,  so  that  other  people  can  feel  it. 
And  just  because  it  is  a  quality  of  the  soul,  you  can  surely 
get  it  elsewhere  than  in  a  work  of  art — you  can  get  it  from 
people  who  have  it  when  you  meet  them.  . .  . 

"  Although  it  may  take  time  for  you  to  realise  that  you 
need  it,  and  that  it  is  the  thing  you're  working  for,  once  you 
have  met  it  you  know.  I  know  that  I  need  it,  and  I  know 
that  one  way  to  get  it  is  to  be  in  the  presence  of  a  person 
who  has  something  of  it.  My  life  is  always  tormented  by 
its  insecurity,  and  there's  no  doubt  that  I  forget  all  about 
that,  at  least  when  I'm  faced  with  security.  And  so  I  seem 
to  spend  all  my  time  looking  for  someone  who  has  got  to  it. 
And  just  because  I  can  do  that,  and  not  feel  that  the  whole 
idea  is  all  wrong,  I  know  that  there's  something  in  a  Greek 
statue,  and  in  a  great  many  other  things,  that  isn't  in  this 
modern  stuff,  and  what  that  is,  and  why  it's  in  one  and  not 
in  the  other,  I  think  I  know.  It's  because  the  true  artist 
does  realise  what  the  harmony  in  the  soul  may  be,  and  be- 
cause we  realise  that  it  really  belongs  to  us,  and  that  we 
should  be  safe,  if  we  could  only  get  to  it.  .  .  ." 

Maurice  was  tingling  at  his  own  outburst.  He  had  gone 
too  far  to  feel  ashamed.  No  one  spoke.  For  ages  no  one 
spoke.  Then  Mrs.  Cradock  said  : 

"  I  think  that's  quite  true." 

"  It's  very  mystical,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Fortescue. 

"  Perhaps  only  rather  enthusiastic,"  said  Cradock. 

"  But  you  don't  tell  us  how  to  get  to  the  harmony, 
Morry,"  said  Dennis  ;  "  and  though  I  think  I  could  believe 
in  everything  you've  said,  that's  important  enough,  isn't 
it  ?  Or  is  it  enough  to  find  it  in  somebody  else  and  ex- 


STILL  LIFE  35 

perience  it  that  way  ?  Or  do  you  mean  that  some  people 
are  born  with  it,  and  others  only  see  it  for  moments,  and 
that  they  have  just  to  keep  as  many  of  these  moments  as 
they  can  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  see  how  I  could  know.  After  all 
it  is  a  matter  of  your  own  experience.  Anyhow,  it's  a 
personal  business." 

Maurice  was  closing  up  again.  He  had  begun  inwardly 
to  shiver  as  a  creeping  cold  closed  in  about  him  after 
excited  heat.  He  hoped  that  some  ordinary  topic  would 
be  discussed,  so  that  there  should  be  no  chance  of  bursting 
out  again.  Mrs.  Cradock  commenced  to  talk  about  Italy 
where  he  had  never  been,  and  he  had  a  comfortable  leisure 
in  which  to  convince  himself  of  Mrs.  Fortescue's  foolishness 
in  listening  to  her  remarks  about  Umbria.  Dennis  and 
Cradock  were  talking  about  a  play.  Cradock  was  being 
benignantly  firm  about  the  merits  of  certain  actors. 

"  Hapwell's  really  no  good,  you  know.  No  actor's  any 
good  unless  he's  enough  in  him  to  make  him  unconscious 
of  his  own  personality.  The  trouble  is  that  according  to 
the  modern  system,  reputation  is  built  only  by  the  actor's 
emphasis  on  his  individuality.  He  begins  to  command  his 
own  particular  salary  when  he  is  credited  with  his  own 
particular  manner.  Not  that  there's  any  room  for  any- 
thing else  in  the  best  plays  we  can  produce  nowadays." 
He  turned  round  towards  his  wife.  "  Anne,  what  was  it 
you  said  the  other  evening  about  Shaw  .  .  .?  It  was  some- 
thing very  good,"  he  added  to  Dennis. 

Mrs.  Cradock  smiled  at  him  almost  mechanically.  The 
smile  had  nothing  to  do  with  what  she  was  thinking,  and 
was  as  though  the  thinnest  surface  of  deep  water  had  been 
moved. 

"  Oh,  I've  forgotten  now,"  she  said.  "  It  wasn't  any- 
thing important,  though.  ...  I  love  the  plain  from 
Assisi,  the  way  those  blue  hills  fold  on  each  other  at  the  far 
edge."  She  wondered  whether  she  had  been  the  cause  of 
Maurice's  words,  and  whether  they  had  really  been,  as  she 


36  STILL  LIFE 

felt  they  had  been,  addressed  to  her.  She  was  sure  of  it. 
At  first  she  felt  that  every  one  else  must  have  noticed  it, 
and  she  glanced  at  her  husband  who  was  leaning  forwards 
towards  Dennis.  She  heard  him  say :  "It  was  awfully 
good,  though,  something  about  the  axiom  of  all  drama 
being  the  freedom  of  the  spirit.  ..."  Suddenly  Cradock 
turned  round  as  though  to  ask  her  more.  Their  glances 
met  and  she  smiled,  and  Cradock  turned  away,  having 
forgotten  to  ask  his  question.  She  felt  guilty  in  having 
smiled.  She  was  deceiving  Cradock  in  smiling  at  him 
while  she  thought  about  Temple.  Yet  she  was  very 
glad  that  Maurice  had  really  been  speaking  to  her, 
and  her  happiness  doubly  armed  her  against  the  darts  of 
Mrs.  Fortescue. 

"  You're  quite  distrait,  Mrs.  Cradock,  you  must  be  very 
tired." 

"  No,  thank  you.  Really  I  couldn't  help  listening  to 
Jim  and  Mr.  Beauchamp.  They're  quite  incorrigible  when 
they  begin  on  the  theatre." 

Cradock's  large  and  rather  heavy  face  flushed  with 
pleasure.  He  was  always  like  a  big  child  with  his  wife, 
glad  whenever  he  felt  that  she  was  taking  some  notice  of 
him,  which  was  often  enough,  because  she  knew  his  nature 
and  indulged  it,  not  without  a  certain  naive  delight  in  her 
own  conscious  power. 

But  the  Fortescues  were  incessant  in  attack.  Even  Mr. 
Fortescue  was  momentarily  diverted  from  his  ruminations 
to  hazard  a  remark  about  Italian  railways.  Mrs.  Cradock's 
skill  in  reply  was  consummate,  because  she  was  aware  that 
her  mind  was  really  working  apart,  trying  to  answer  the 
inexorable  question  :  "Is  my  soul  secure  ?  "  Indubitably 
Maurice  believed  that  he  had  seen  a  security  in  her,  and 
she  was  troubled  with  anxiety  to  satisfy  herself  that  this 
was  really  true.  She  did  not  dare  to  answer  the  question, 
because  she  might  have  to  say  "no."  She  tried  to  rid  her- 
self of  it  by  treating  the  whole  matter  as  unreal  and  fanci- 
ful, suggested  by  an  enthusiastic  boy's  random  rhetoric. 


STILL  LIFE  37 

Yet  she  could  not  deny  that  she  was  glad  that  she  had 
inspired  it,  even  while  she  resented  his  monopoly  of  her 
mind.  She  turned  towards  him. 

He  was  now  sitting  down,  leaning  forward  as  though  to 
listen  to  the  conversation  of  Dennis  and  Cradock,  his 
elbows  resting  upon  his  knees  and  his  face  in  his  hands, 
nervously  biting  at  his  fingers.  She  saw  immediately  how 
agitated  he  was,  and  knew  that  he  was  not  really  listening 
to  the  words  in  which  he  pretended  to  be  absorbed.  The 
impulse  to  reassure  him  suddenly  took  hold  of  her. 

"  You  mustn't  be  too  philosophical,  Mr.  Temple,"  she 
said  quietly.  He  started,  but  the  smile  on  her  face  instantly 
calmed  him,  and  he  too  began  to  smile. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  said. 

"  You  should  have  more  pity  on  yourself." 

Mrs.  Cradock  turned  away  to  riposte  to  some  question 
of  Mrs.  Fortescue's,  and  Maurice  found  himself  confronted 
with  the  amused  eyes  of  Cradock,  who  had  turned  at  the 
sound  of  his  wife's  voice. 

"  I  hate  Cradock's  amusement,"  Maurice  said  to  himself. 
"  He  doesn't  understand  anything,  to  treat  me  like  a  child." 
But  his  annoyance  faded  away.  He  was  really  only  con- 
cerned with  Mrs.  Cradock's  solicitude  for  him,  and  above 
all  concerned  with  the  expression  of  it.  He  thought  there 
must  be  infinite  subtleties  in  the  words,  for  he  seemed  to 
taste  something  in  them  which  stood  in  no  intelligible 
relation  to  "  you  should  have  more  pity  on  yourself."  He 
was  continually  repeating  the  phrase  to  himself,  finding  it 
very  precious. 

The  conversation  had  become  general.  Mrs.  Fortescue, 
still  apprehensive  of  Dennis's  vulgarity,  was  calling  him  a 
mystic ;  while  he,  with  perfect  gravity,  was  asking  her 
what  she  would  feel  if  a  sailor  on  the  top  of  a  motor  omnibus 
should  lean  over  and  deliberately  spit  upon  her  head. 
Cradock  laughed  at  the  situation.  Mrs.  Fortescue,  now 
convinced  that  Dennis  was  quite  impossible,  irritated  by 
the  calmness  with  which  he  polished  his  eyeglass,  could 


38  STILL  LIFE 

find  no  words  to  reply  to  what  she  felt  could  only  be  a 
personal  insult. 

"  A  sailor  did  it  to  me,"  said  Dennis  unmoved.  "  I 
think  I  was  glad.  I  should  have  been,  if  I'd  been  sure  that 
he  did  it  deliberately,  aiming  at  me  and  no  one  else.  It 
would  have  meant  that  I  was  important  to  him.  Anyhow, 
it's  much  more  profound  than  one  is  inclined  to  think." 

Mrs.  Fortescue  was  indulging  in  a  sugary  "  good-bye." 
"  So  delightful  and  unusual,"  she  said.  Maurice  knew  the 
shaft  was  meant  for  him,  and  though  he  was  unrepentant 
about  her,  he  felt  again  ashamed  of  himself  for  his 
behaviour. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Temple,"  Mrs.  Cradock  was  saying. 
"  I  hope  we  shall  see  you  again  soon.  I  shall  think  about 
what  you  said." 

Maurice  walked  with  Dennis  along  the  High  Street. 
Even  though  they  came  very  near  to  understanding  each 
other  completely,  he  could  never  overcome  a  certain  shy- 
ness with  Dennis,  so  that  he  never  took  Dennis's  arm  of 
his  own  account.  Dennis  knew  this,  and  to-night  he  took 
Maurice's  as  if  it  were  perfectly  normal  between  them. 
Maurice  was  grateful  and  happy  in  pressing  Dennis's  arm 
close,  for  he  needed  exactly  this  gesture  of  friendship  that 
his  sense  of  security  should  continue  unbroken. 

"  I  think  that  was  all  right  about  the  soul,"  said  Dennis 
as  though  he  had  been  thinking  of  nothing  else  since. 
"  I've  met  a  man  who  can  give  you  the  feeling,  though  I've 
only  spoken  with  him  once  or  twice- — a  doctor  who  lives 
in  Hampstead  of  all  places.  He  doesn't  talk  much,  hardly 
at  all  in  fact ;  but  he  listens,  and  somehow  you  begin  to 
let  off  about  your  soul.  I  remember  the  last  time  but  one 
I  talked  for  about  half  an  hour  without  a  break,  and  said 
some  things  that  seemed  to  me  extraordinarily  deep  ;  but 
I  forgot  about  them.  However,  I  met  him  once  since,  at  a 
dinner,  and  he  reminded  me  about  something  I'd  said 
about  spirit  and  necessity  in  society.  I  didn't  understand 
it,  but  I  thought  I  could  feel  something  profound  in  it." 


STILL  LIFE  39 

"I've  never  met  anybody  like  it,"  said  Maurice,  "  but 
I  do  believe  in  them."  He  felt  that  he  couldn't  go  on,  for 
he  wanted  to  say  that  he  had  met  someone  like  it  that  even- 
ing. It  would  be  terrible  to  risk  being  misunderstood. 
After  a  pause  he  added,  struggling  for  nonchalance,  "  I'm 
not  sure,  though,  that  Mrs.  Cradock  hasn't  got  something 
of  it.  But  I  suppose  you  would  have  to  recognise  it 
immediately." 

"  I  don't  know."  Dennis  was  reflecting.  "  After  all,  it 
must  have  been  something  that  set  me  off  on  the  poetry, 
and  you  on  to  the  soul.  We're  not  in  the  habit  of  it  at 
dinner  parties,  are  we  ?  " 

Maurice  found  a  warm  delight  in  the  "  we  "  and  laughed, 
remembering  another  dinner,  where  they  had  both  sat 
silent,  while  a  literary  encyclopedist  had  wagged  a  porten- 
tous finger  to  mark  the  number  of  times  that  Flaubert's 
Education  Sentimentale  must  be  read  by  one  who  really 
wished  to  be  conversant  with  literary  art. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  think  she  must  have  something  of  it 
anyhow." 

"  Still,  I'm  not  sure  about  women,"  continued  Dennis. 
"  I  often  think  that  something  like  it  is  native  to  the  best 
of  them,  but  I'm  never  sure  that  it  is  the  real  thing.  A 
woman,  I  mean,  who  is  beautiful,  is  often  splendidly  sure 
of  herself,  almost  on  the  animal  plane.  She  seems  to  sun 
herself  in  life,  as  if  she  never  had  the  slightest  doubt  about 
it.  Probably  she  hasn't,  either.  And  in  a  way  she'd 
understand  you,  simply  because  she  doesn't  believe  in 
worrying  about  the  things  you  worry  about,  and  most  of 
the  time  you  don't  believe  in  it  yourself,  only  you  just  have 
to  go  on.  So  she's  always  sure  where  we  are  doubtful. 

"  But  that  kind  of  security  won't  really  satisfy,  and  it 
never  does.  After  all,  though  a  man  may  disbelieve  in  him- 
self, and  curse  his  own  foolishness  for  worrying  about  what 
the  whole  thing  means  for  three  hundred  and  sixty-four 
days  in  the  year,  there  will  probably  be  the  odd  one  when 
he  sees  something  in  it  all,  and  believes  his  right  to  worry 


40  STILL  LIFE 

in  the  way  he  does.  If  he  were  to  meet  the  woman  on  that 
day  he  wouldn't  think  she  was  wonderful ;  he  would  just 
think  she  was  intolerable  and  blind.  She  seems  to  be  certain 
and  to  have  what  you  call  the  harmony,  only  because  she 
cuts  out  all  that  a  man  considers  to  be  his  soul.  And  mind 
you,  compared  to  him  she  is  certain  nearly  all  her  life,  but 
on  his  best  day  she  will  be  unable  to  touch  him,  or  to  hold 
him  at  all. 

"  Not  that  I  say  that  Mrs.  Cradock  is  like  that,  for  she 
seems  different,  and  she  seems  to  understand  ;  but  I've  a 
queer  idea  that  that's  what  it  might  all  reduce  to  in  the  end. 
You  don't  get  harmony — that  is,  if  we  are  meaning  the 
same  thing — by  carving  out  all  that  part  of  a  man  which 
really  tells  him  that  he  needs  it,  but  by  somehow  getting 
beyond  it,  and  of  having  something  of  your  best  day  in 
every  day  of  the  year,  or  at  any  rate  never  f eeling  that  you 
are  cut  off  from  it  absolutely.  Where  the  woman  gets  you 
is  that  for  nearly  all  your  life  she  can  convince  you  that 
she  has  known  the  secrets  of  the  universe  from  the  day  of 
her  birth,  and  you  have  nothing  to  put  up  against  it,  except 
perhaps  a  certain  amount  of  knowledge  which  you  know 
doesn't  count  anyway." 

"  But,  after  all,"  said  Maurice,  "  you  can  only  judge  it 
by  its  effects,  surely.  The  fact  that  she  managed  to  start 
us  talking  is  something,  isn't  it  ?  You  don't  find  that  in 
every  woman,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No,  you  don't.  But  perhaps  the  reason  is  that  the 
majority  of  them  don't  know  exactly  where  their  strength 
is,  and  they  try  the  foolish  game  of  trying  to  meet  you  on 
your  own  ground — the  intelligent  interest  in  things.  There 
it's  just  hopeless.  Plenty  of  them  are  clever  and  intelli- 
gent, enough  at  least  to  make  me  feel  uncommonly  incom- 
petent. But  my  sense  of  inferiority  doesn't  last  long. 
There's  too  much  perfection  in  their  cleverness  and  in- 
telligence. It  hasn't  got  any  loose  ends,  and  the  reason  is 
that  they're  not  trying  to  get  anything  out  of  it  all.  If  they 
were,  it  wouldn't  be  so  complete,  simply  because  it  couldn't 


STILL  LIFE  41 

be.  Their  idea  in  being  intelligent  is  to  prove  themselves 
superior  to  most  men,  and  that's  not  very  hard  after  all, 
and  it  probably  doesn't  need  to  be  proved.  A  great  many 
men  are  like  that ;  but  the  best  of  them  are  intelligent,  not 
because  they  think  it's  a  good  thing  to  be  intelligent,  but 
because  it's  a  bad  way,  but  the  best  that  they've  got,  to 
get  hold  of  something  that  will  make  them  believe  in  life. 
A  woman  doesn't  need  to  believe  in  it,  and  she  really 
doesn't  care  about  anything  outside  her  emotions.  If  she 
stays  on  that  ground  she's  impregnable — except  on  the  one 
day  in  the  year." 

The  theory  was  interesting  enough,  thought  Maurice, 
but  it  didn't  fit  the  new  fact.  However,  he  kept  that  rp- 
mark  to  himself,  and  they  walked  on,  without  saying 
anything,  to  the  station  where  they  stopped  to  say  "  good- 
bye." 

'*  You  know  a  good  deal  more  about  these  things  than  I 
do,"  said  Dennis,  "  but  I  think  those  very  Greeks  who, 
you  say,  managed  to  conceive  this  harmony  and  express  it, 
rather  left  women  out  of  it,  didn't  they  ?  " 

"  I  believe  they  did,  now  you  remind  me." 

"  Well,  good-bye." 

"  Good-bye.    I  suppose  I  shall  be  seeing  you  again  soon." 

Maurice  had  something  to  occupy  him  on  his  journey 
home.  He  was  not  wondering  about  his  feelings,  as  he 
generally  did,  but  he  took  an  instinctive  delight  in  re- 
creating certain  scenes  of  the  evening.  He  did  not  have  to 
exert  himself  very  much,  for  the  whole  episode  seemed  to 
resolve  itself  into  one  or  two  pictures  in  which  he  could  see 
himself  plainly,  one  where  he  was  tilting  back  his  chair  and 
nervously  watching  Cradock's  face  as  though  his  life 
depended  on  his  not  turning  to  Mrs.  Cradock,  while  she 
listened  to  Dennis's  poetry.  Though  he  was  not  looking  at 
her  he  saw  her  plainly,  her  arms  leant  on  the  table,  draped 
in  some  greyish  gauze,  her  eyes  smiling  a  little,  yet  intent 
upon  Dennis,  and  again  he  wanted  to  call  out  to  her  that 
she  must  look  at  him  and  speak  to  him.  In  the  other,  he 


42  STILL  LIFE 

was  leaning  anxiously  against  the  mantelpiece,  talking 
rapidly,  while  Mrs.  Cradock  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
looked  at  him,  a  little  apprehensive ;  she  was  gripping 
the  arms  of  her  chair  very  tightly  as  though  to  stifle  some- 
thing in  herself,  yet  her  eyes  were  smiling  at  him.  He 
wondered  why  she  was  so  anxious,  and  what  she  was  trying 
to  control. 


CHAPTER   IV 

"  GORGEOUS  morning,  Anne."  Cradock  entered  the  break- 
fast-room as  though  he  were  taking  a  fence.  His  vigour  was 
not  particularly  due  to  the  morning  sun,  which  shone 
through  the  windows  on  this  late  March  morning.  A  forcible 
radiation  of  physical  energy  at  the  breakfast-table  was 
habitual  with  him.  When  his  wife  was  there  before  him 
as  to-day,  she  became  apprehensive  of  the  brusqueness  of 
his  entrance,  and  would  wait  nervously  for  the  sound  of 
his  heavy  descent  of  the  stairs,  three  at  a  time.  This 
morning  she  had  waited  in  suspense.  At  his  entrance  she 
started  and  recovered  herself. 

"It  is  good,"  she  said,  with  a  trace  of  emphasis,  of 
which  she  alone  was  aware.  "  You  look  very  fit,  Jim." 

"  Do  I  ?  "  He  laughed  and  reddened,  as  a  schoolboy 
embarrassed  and  being  told  that  he  is  quite  a  man.  "  Well, 
I  feel  fit,  anyhow.  Nothing  could  touch  me  on  a  morning 
like  this — except  perhaps  being  kept  off  my  food.  I'm 
going  for  a  walk  somewhere.  You  should  too.  The 
morning's  made  for  it."  It  was  no  question  of  their  going 
together,  for  by  old  experience  they  knew  that  the  task  of 
keeping  pace  with  Cradock's  energetic  stride  was  too  much 
for  his  wife,  while  he  felt  irked  and  miserable  when  he 
reduced  his  pace  to  hers.  Besides,  Mrs.  Cradock  liked  to 
go  out  alone. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall,"  she  said. 

The  sunlight  was  not  without  its  effect  upon  him. 
"  Perhaps  we  might  go  together  as  far  as  the  Park  corner," 
he  said.  "  It's  good  to  dawdle  a  bit  in  the  sun." 

She  smiled  a  little  at  the  way  he  referred  to  any  walk 
together.  "  Well,  we'll  see."  There  was  a  pause,  during 


44  STILL  LIFE 

which  she  leant  forward  on  her  elbows,  and  watched  him 
at  his  breakfast,  waiting  for  his  next  words. 

"  How  d'you  like  the  boy  Temple  ?  You  went  to  bed 
so  quickly  last  night,  I  didn't  have  time  to  ask  you.  They 
made  a  queer  party.  The  two  of  them  quite  put  the 
Fortescues  out  of  their  bearings.  But  I  enjoyed  it." 

"  So  did  I." 

"  He's  a  quaint  child,  though.  I've  never  known  him 
go  funny  like  that  before.  I  sometimes  wonder  whether 
he  looks  after  himself.  He  often  rattles  away  a  good  deal 
when  he  comes  to  see  me  at  the  office.  But  I've  never 
known  him  take  things  so  seriously  as  he  did  last  night. 
Perhaps  it's  the  combination  of  him  and  Beauchamp. 
They're  always  talking  together.  Anyhow,  he's  very 
young." 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  What  does  he  do  ?  " 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  quite  know.  He  sometimes 
reviews  a  book  for  us,  but  very  seldom.  I  don't  know  that 
he  does  anything.  Sometimes  he  tutors  people — lordlings. 
I  think  he's  quite  a  good  scholar.  Once  I  believe  he  told 
me  he  was  going  in  for  an  examination  for  some  Museum. 
At  all  events  he  doesn't  do  very  much.  I  don't  think  he 
quite  knows  what  he's  up  to.  But  he's  only  a  youngster, 
after  all." 

"  Yes,  he  is  very  young.  So  young,  that  you  can't  have 
really  any  opinion  about  him.  His  philosophy  is  very 
much  the  same  thing  as  poetry  in  other  young  men, — just 
a  symptom  of  their  age.  But  I  like  him  because  he  takes 
himself  so  seriously,  and  yet  he's  not  offensive.  I  never 
saw  a  boy  so  intensely  ashamed  of  himself  as  he  was  after 
his  speech.  I  like  him  for  that." 

"  I  didn't  notice  it,  though." 

''  You  wouldn't,  would  you,  Jim  ?  Own  to  it.  It's 
hardly  your  forte  to  notice  people's  feelings,  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you're  right.    But  I  don't  see  why." 

"  Well,  do  you  know  what  my  feelings  are  now  ?  Have 
you  the  faintest  idea  of  what  I  am  really  thinking  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  45 

"You're  too  deep."  Cradock  was  undecided  between 
seriousness  and  a  smile.  "But  I  don't  believe  you're 
really  thinking  of  anything  in  particular — except  perhaps 
what  you'll  wear  when  you  go  out  this  morning." 

Mrs.  Cradock  looked  at  him  hard  for  a  second,  then  her 
lips  laughed  amusedly. 

"  Oh,  Jim.  You're  altogether  too  obvious,  my  darling. 
I  think  I  should  be  better  doing  the  theatres  myself ; 
don't  you,  now  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  you  would." 

"  If  only  you  believed  it.  ...  You're  very  simple,  Jim, 
— not  a  day  older  than  when  you  came  down  from  Oxford. 
Women — well  there  are  just  sheep  and  goats.  And  a  good 
solid  thing  it  was  to  start  your  first-nighting  with.  It's 
lasted  well  too.  .  .  .  Only  I  do  wish  you  would  tell  me, 
just  once,  whether  I'm  a  sheep  or  a  goat.  We'll  take  it 
for  granted  that  I'm  a  woman." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  use  teasing  me,  Anne.  You're  really 
quite  proud  of  me,  but  you  don't  like  to  show  it.  You 
know  that  I  understand  you.  That's  why  you  won't  give 
up  the  mystery  of  the  femme  incomprise." 

"  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  you  were  right. 
Sometimes  you're  very  profound — for  a  blockhead.  But 
what  I  was  going  to  ask  was — Do  you  think  Mr.  Temple 
will  ever  be  any  older  ?  Is  he  meant  to  grow  up  or  not  ?  " 

"  Only  got  to  fall  in  love."  Cradock  spoke  of  something 
incredibly  simple,  too  evident  for  words.  "  I've  told  him 
so  already,  myself.  He'd  have  a  tremendous  idyll  with  a 
milkmaid  or  a  miller's  daughter — full  of  passion — if  he 
were  only  put  in  the  way  of  it.  I  can  see  myself  sitting  at 
my  desk  and  listening  to  raptures  about  celestial  beauty." 

"  Looking  forward  to  it  already,  in  fact." 

"  So  would  you.  Obviously  he  hasn't  the  least  idea  of 
what  a  woman  is,  really.  I  like  to  think  of  his  eyes  being 
opened."  Cradock  paused.  "  Not  but  what  it  frightens 
me  a  little.  It's  rather  awful  to  think  that  he  may  very 
well  run  away  with  a  servant  or  a  chorus  girl— any  quite 


46  STILL  LIFE 

impossible  person.  He  might  never  get  over  it  when  he 
discovers  that  the  happiness  won't  last  for  ever." 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  But  I  should  have  thought  that 
he  was  a  great  deal  too  worried  about  himself  to  tumble  in 
like  that." 

"  They're  just  the  kind  that  do,  my  dear  Anne.  It's  a 
commonplace.  All  great  scientists  marry  their  own  cooks. 
Young  ones  and  poets  marry  somebody  else's.  .  .  .  But, 
seriously,  it's  these  young  men  who  have  their  eyes  fixed 
on  the  heavenly  kingdom,  who  fall  into  ditches  in  the 
earthly.  It's  only  natural." 

"  Very  likely.  But  I  believe  you've  got  some  inside 
information.  This  young  man  has  confided  in  you  already  ? 
He's  in  love  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  was  only  giving  you  the  fruit  of  my 
experience.  But  what  makes  you  think  he's  in  love  ?  " 

"  I  don't.  As  I  said,  I  thought  that  you  might  have 
some  practical  reason  for  your  theory.  It's  hardly  one  of 
your  habits  to  theorise,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Isn't  it  ?  ...  I  believe  you've  got  something  up  your 
sleeve." 

"  How  could  I  have  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  one  of  these  feminine 
intuitions,  you  mean  ?  " 

Cradock  nodded,  smiling. 

"  Nothing,  as  far  as  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Cradock. 

"  If  it  was  true,  I'd  like  to  know  the  woman." 

"  So  would  I." 

"  I  hope,  for  his  sake,  she  won't  be  quite  too  terrible." 

Cradock  rose  from  the  table.  He  went  round  to  the 
other  side  and  regarded  his  wife  with  admiration.  He  had  a 
habit  of  kissing  her  after  meals.  Before  he  did  so,  he  said  : 
"  You're  fine  this  morning,  Anne.  I  think  those  gauzy 
things  you're  wearing  are  very  good,  very  good  indeed. 
A  kind  of  wedding  garment  effect."  Then  he  bent  over 
her.  She  rose  and  stood  close  to  him  while  they  both 
looked  out  of  the  window  on  to  the  garden  which  lay 
between  them  and  the  road.  Already  a  general  green  was 


STILL  LIFE  47 

perceptible  in  the  blackened  wood  of  the  hedge  by  the 
railings. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  are  so  clever  as  you  make  out,"  said 
Cradock,  looking  down  at  his  wife's  face. 

"  I  wonder  .  .  ."  she  said.    "  More  so,  if  anything." 

Anne  Cradock  sat  in  her  bedroom  looking  at  her  face  in 
the  mirror.  She  was  exhilarated  by  the  conversation  and 
the  morning,  and  the  sight  of  the  blood  which  had  mounted 
to  her  cheeks,  and  was  now  pulsing  and  fluttering  there 
before  her,  made  her  very  happy.  She  found  it  hard  to 
stop  looking  at  herself  to  see  whether  the  blood  had  faded. 
She  brought  her  face  closer  and  closer  to  the  glass  until 
she  could  see  the  tiniest  veins,  and  her  colour  seemed  to 
be  more  broken.  Then  she  laughed.  "  Oh,  you  are  an 
absurdity  !  "  she  said.  She  began  to  feel  that  the  remark 
was  only  half-convincing,  and  she  was  thinking  about  it 
still  while  she  unfastened  the  dress  she  was  wearing,  but 
soon  she  decided  it  would  be  silly  to  go  on  thinking, 
because  the  excitement  was  too  good  to  be  destroyed,  nor 
could  she  have  subdued  it.  She  was  hunting  among  her 
dresses  for  something  to  wear.  It  was  not  because  she  did 
not  like  the  white  "  wedding  garment "  which  she  had 
just  taken  off,  but  because  she  wanted  something  else. 
Soon  she  found  a  blouse  that  was  made  of  some  grey- 
mauve  muslin,  and  she  began  to  put  it  on,  looking  at 
herself  very  closely  in  the  mirror  as  she  fastened  her  collar, 
and  talking  to  herself. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  why  you  choose  this  ?  "  she 
said. 

"  Because  it's  spring,  yet  it's  not  really  spring.  It 
only  looks  like  a  blue  sky  for  a  moment ;  but  it's  really 
grey." 

"  Anne,  you're  getting  romantic  ;  and  rather  a  liar." 

She  looked  at  herself  for  quite  a  long  while  without 
speaking.  Then  quickly  tip-toed  to  the  door  and  turned 
the  key,  while  her  heart  throbbed.  Then  she  sat  down  in 
a  chair  in  front  of  the  long  mirror  and  clasped  one  kn<v 


48  STILL  LIFE 

above  the  other  with  her  hands,  looking  at  her  shoes,  and 
turning  at  moments  to  catch  herself  in  her  mirrored 
reflection.  A  knock  sounded  on  the  door,  then  Jim's 
voice :  "  Are  you  ready  ?  We're  going  up  to  the  Park 
together,  aren't  we  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  hopeless,  Jim.  I've  been  writing  a  letter. 
I  shall  never  be  ready  now.  You'll  have  to  go  without 
me." 

"  Right !  Mind  you  go  out  though.  It's  too  good  to 
miss.  See  you  at  dinner.  Good-bye  !  " 

"  Good-bye.    Take  care  of  yourself." 

She  was  excited  by  her  own  unexpectedness.  She 
wondered  why  she  had  made  the  excuse  to  avoid  going 
out  with  him  the  few  hundred  yards  to  the  Park,  and  yet 
she  knew  that  she  had  never  for  a  moment  intended  to 
accompany  him.  Rocking  to  and  fro  on  her  chair  she 
assured  herself  that  she  really  preferred  to  be  alone, 
because  she  could  notice  things  to  her  heart's  content 
without  being  incessantly  moved  on  by  Jim's  eagerness 
for  action,  and  that  her  reluctance  was  natural  and  usual. 
Moreover,  she  was  glad  to  be  alone  and  with  her  own 
thoughts  that  morning,  and  although  she  might  enjoy 
playing  with  Jim's  naive  unconsciousness,  it  soon  became 
wearisome.  She  was  excited  enough  already,  and  already 
tired  with  excitement,  but  glad  that  the  whole  day  was 
before  her  for  her  occupations.  She  would  go  out  immedi- 
ately. At  the  door  she  turned  with  the  impulse  to  look  at 
herself  in  the  mirror  once  more,  and  as  she  turned  she  saw 
the  sunlight  spotting  the  floor  of  her  room.  "  Yes,  it's  a 
wonderful  day,"  she  said  to  herself.  She  went  to  the 
mirror  again.  "  I'm  young  enough,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Cradock  ran  downstairs,  calling  to  the  maid,  with 
whom  she  nearly  collided  at  the  stair-foot,  laughing. 
"  Isn't  it  a  splendid  morning,  Richardson  ?  " 

"  Yes,  m'm,  the  buds  are  quite  out  in  the  garden.  .  .  . 
You  called  me  ?  " 

k£  I  feel  very  happy.    I  never  believe  Spring  can  do  it, 


STILL  LIFE  49 

until  it  does."  She  had  spoken  to  herself.  "Oh! 
what  nonsense.  What  was  it  I  wanted  ?  ...  oh, 
my  bag.  Have  you  seen  it  ?  I've  left  it  about  some- 
where." 

"I've  not  yet  seen  it,  m'm.  But  the  drawing-room 
hasn't  been  done  yet.  Perhaps  it's  there." 

"  Yes,  it  is,  ...  I  remember  now.  I  had  it  yesterday 
evening.  Thank  you."  She  entered  the  drawing-room, 
and  rescued  her  bag  from  the  corner  of  her  chair,  then 
dropped  into  the  chair  and  stared  at  the  mantelpiece. 
The  room  was  remote  and  very  quiet.  A  little  brass  vase 
was  lying  on  its  side  on  the  mantel-corner.  No  one  had 
set  it  up  again  since  Temple's  agitated  shoulder  had 
knocked  it  over.  She  tapped  with  her  fingers  upon  the 
arm  of  her  chair,  regarding  it,  and  as  she  pulled  herself 
to  her  feet  again,  "  It's  too  much,"  she  said. 

Of  the  beauty  of  the  day  there  could  be  no  doubt. 
Mrs.  Cradock  was  happy  with  the  childish  thought  that 
it  was  all  her  own.  One  or  two  hard  little  balls  of  white 
cloud  gravely  rested  high  in  the  blue  sky.  A  tree  which 
stood  between  the  church  and  the  motor-car  shop  was 
filled  with  the  voices  of  many  birds.  On  the  tall  buildings 
men  in  white  jackets  were  swinging  in  cradles,  painting 
the  stained  and  dirty  surface,  and  the  new  colour  gleamed 
and  dazzled  in  the  sun.  She  stood  still  for  several  minutes 
with  her  head  bent  back  to  watch  a  cradle  gradually  swing 
higher  and  higher  until  it  reached  the  level  of  the  chimney- 
pots. A  man  holding  fast  to  the  roof  coping  gingerly  felt 
for  the  cradle  with  his  foot,  and  cautiously  lowered  himself 
into  it.  Vaguely  she  speculated  whether  he  would  fall, 
and  at  length  decided  that  it  would  be  useless  to  wait, 
because  they  never  do.  She  watched  until  she  felt  that 
everybody  round  must  be  looking  at  her  to  see  whether 
she  would  ever  lower  her  head  again.  She  walked  on 
quickly  with  her  head  bent  so  that  no  passer-by  could  see 
her  until  she  reached  the  corner  of -the  Park,  when  she 
dared  to  look  at  the  road  again. 


50  STILL  LIFE 

The  omnibuses  were  toy  omnibuses,  the  motor-cars  were 
toy  motor-cars,  and  the  people  were  for  all  the  world  tin 
soldiers  or  their  brothers ;  everything  seemed  to  be  going 
very  fast,  while  she  looked  upon  it  all  from  an  immense 
distance  above,  as  though  it  were  a  wonderful  game  spread 
out  and  set  in  motion  for  her  delight.  The  feeling,  for 
all  its  strangeness,  was  somehow  familiar,  and  she  cast 
about  to  discover  what  it  had  recalled  to  her  mind.  She 
had  known  the  same  smallness,  the  same  brightness,  and 
the  same  delight  in  her  busy  surroundings  in  foreign 
cities.  Perhaps  it  was  that  the  scene  reminded  her  of  Paris 
by  its  very  arrangement  of  buildings  and  spaces,  but, 
while  she  thought,  she  knew  that  this  likeness  was  only 
accidental,  although  the  same  spring  sun  and  the  un- 
wonted clearness  of  the  air  may  have  counted  for  some- 
thing. But  what  she  chiefly  remembered  of  her  delight  in 
strange  cities  was  the  wonder  of  her  sense  of  apartness, 
and  the  impregnable  security  in  herself,  when  all  the 
familiar  things  about  her  were  suddenly  foreign  and  un- 
familiar, and  she  had  nothing  more  to  do  than  to  indulge 
her  curiosity  in  an  agitated  and  slightly  ridiculous  life 
with  which  she  had  no  real  connection.  Yes,  she  knew 
she  was  the  same  isolated  and  infinitely  amused  spectator 
of  a  little  world  of  toys,  and  to-day  the  carelessness  which 
had  always  been  inseparable  from  that  sensation  had 
strong  hold  of  her ; — but  after  all,  the  Park  Gate  was  a 
familiar  place  and  the  things  that  passed  by  it  were 
familiar  things.  She  would  like  to  sit  down  and  think 
a  little. 

Mrs.  Cradock  passed  under  the  archway ;  and  as  she 
passed  she  was  compelled  to  ask  the  policeman  which  was 
the  way  to  the  Marble  Arch,  although  she  knew  it  per- 
fectly well.  The  policeman  told  her  smiling.  She  felt  she 
had  been  found  out,  and  hurried  away,  until  she  reached  a 
seat  where  the  policeman  could  see  her  no  more.  Immedi- 
ately she  was  tired  with  the  intoxication  of  the  spring  air, 
and  far  too  lazy  to  think,  she  said  to  herself.  And  she  sat 


STILL  LIFE  51 

still  for  a  long  time  with  her  eyes  closed,  drowsily  happy  to 
feel  that  the  blood  was  hurrying  about  in  her  veins  and 
conscious  only  of  her  eager  bodily  existence.  Even  she 
clasped  her  hands  together,  knowing  that  they  were  already 
too  hot,  in  order  that  she  might  feel  the  goodness  of  her 
own  flesh.  And  she  wondered  why  it  should  be  improper 
for  her  to  pass  her  hands  down  her  legs  and  delight  herself 
in  the  sense  that  they  were  firm  and  hard.  "  I  really  do 
belong  to  another  world,"  she  said,  opening  her  eyes. 
"  To-day,  at  any  rate,"  she  added. 

This  reminded  her  that  she  had  really  come  to  the  seat 
to  think  why  she  believed  the  world  was  strange  to-day. 
It  was  quite  easy  to  understand  a  feeling  like  this  when 
you  were  in  Paris  ;  because  everything  is  different  there  ; 
— the  omnibuses  look  like  trains  on  the  Underground,  the 
trains  look  as  though  they  had  been  filled  with  chocolates, 
when  they  are  clean  ;  and  the  trams  looked  like  nothing 
at  all.  But  in  London  ?  Perhaps  there  was  one  day  in 
the  year  when  everything  changes  suddenly,  and  that  one 
day  was  to-day,  and  to-day  was  the  beginning  of  real 
Spring.  It  might  very  well  be  a  matter  of  light  and  sun 
and  nothing  more.  "  Too  thin,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  at 
all  events  I've  never  noticed  it  before."  She  prodded  the 
gravel  with  the  point  of  her  umbrella.  "  Besides  that's 
exactly  what  Jim  felt  this  morning." 

The  answer  was  final.  If  one  thing  seemed  above  all 
others  certain  to  her  that  morning,  it  was  that  her  excite- 
ment had  nothing  to  do  with  his.  Beyond  that  she  would 
not  go,  suspecting  that  were  she  to  be  too  exacting  in  her 
search  she  might  discover  something  that  would  perturb 
her.  A  wind  blew  about  her,  and  behind,  some  flower- 
leaves  rustled  against  each  other,  and  she  turned  to  look 
at  them,  amused  to  find  that  they  were  so  smaD.  She 
realised  that  all  her  thinking  was  not  doing  very  much 
good,  although  she  had  spent  a  very  long  time  over  it, 
but  she  refused  to  get  up  until  she  had  decided  upon  what 
she  was  going  to  do  next.  "  You  really  want  someone 


52  STILL  LIFE 

with  you  on  these  occasions,"  she  said  impersonally, 
"  otherwise  it's  not  very  much  fun  doing  something — 
though  it's  excellent  to  do  nothing  by  yourself."  However 
it  was  nearly  lunch-time,  she  reflected,  and  it  would  take 
some  time  to  get  to  a  restaurant.  With  this  immediate 
purpose  to  control  her  she  rose  and  walked  along  to  the 
Marble  Arch,  not  so  carelessly  as  she  had  entered  the  Park. 
Somehow  she  felt  rather  cold  and  depressed.  She  felt 
infinitely  removed  from  the  people  round  her,  but  she 
didn't  delight  in  them  any  more.  They  seemed  rather  more 
giant  than  pigmy,  after  all.  The  sun  was  not  so  very 
warm,  and  the  sky  was  cast  with  grey.  "  I  was  quite  right 
about  the  blouse,"  she  said  as  she  ran  up  the  stairs  of  an 
omnibus. 

She  was  cheered  by  her  own  remark,  and  as  she  rode  in 
the  front  seat  she  was  buoyed  up  by  her  inward  con- 
viction that  she  was  perfectly  and  appropriately  dressed. 
She  regarded  her  shoes  with  complaisance  while  she  con- 
sidered what  would  be  good  for  lunch.  But  the  imagina- 
tion did  not  please  her  long.  Lunch  was  quite  unimportant, 
even  annoying,  for  it  wasted  time.  If  only  she  knew  what 
she  could  do  afterwards.  "  You  knew  all  along,"  she  said 
to  herself,  and  then  she  began  to  laugh  impatiently,  as 
though  she  had  foolishly  betrayed  a  confidence  and  was 
in  haste  to  forget  all  about  it. 

Lunch  was  silly,  intolerable.  People  she  did  not  know 
stared  at  her,  and  she  detested  them.  One  or  two  whom 
she  knew  spoke  to  her  and  she  detested  them  more 
fervently,  because  they  robbed  her  of  her  secrecy,  and 
revealed  her  hiding-place. 

"  Don't  often  see  you  here,  Mrs.  Cradock,"  said  one 
assiduous  young  civil  servant.  "  You  always  seem  to  be 
so  busy.  I  suppose  the  Spring's  hit  you  to-day.  I  think 
everybody's  affected  by  it." 

"  I'm  enjoying  it,"  she  said,  gravely. 

"  So'm  I.  Besides  I've  managed  to  get  off  early  for 
once  in  a  way." 


STILL  LIFE  53 

"  So  I  see.  I  never  remember  to  have  seen  you  here 
after  two  o'clock  before.  I  hope  you  enjoy  yourself." 

;<  You  do  remember  things.  .  .  .  Are  you  doing  any- 
thing this  afternoon  ?  If  not,  might  I  go  with  you  some- 
where ?  Theatre,  pictures,  anything — I  should  love  to." 

"  Thanks,  but  I'm  engaged  already  at  three  o'clock. 
I'm  rather  late  now."  She  looked  hurriedly  at  the 
clock  and  called  loudly  for  the  waiter,  in  order  to  be  rid 
of  Mr.  Mortimer. 

Mrs.  Cradock  was  not  very  good  at  excuses,  generally. 
She  had  a  foolish  way  of  falling  into  the  most  obvious 
invitation-traps,  and  a  particularly  foolish  habit  of  sending 
palpably  ridiculous  telegrams  at  the  last  moment,  and 
then,  in  an  inevitable  burst  of  self-accusation,  following 
with  all  speed  in  person,  and  steering  through  the  inevitable 
explanations,  with  an  unexpected  sang-froid.  She  knew 
therefore,  that  the  engagement  at  three  o'clock  was  not 
exactly  an  excuse,  although  it  certainly  was  not  a  reality. 
"  But  I  had  decided  to  go  there  early  this  morning,"  she 
answered  in  her  own  defence.  There  was  no  way  out  of 
the  dilemma.  Either  she  had  decided  to  go  there  early 
this  morning,  in  which  case  she  had  been  engaged  in  de- 
ceiving herself  all  the  day ;  or  she  had  never  decided  at 
all,  and  it  was  merely  an  excuse  to  get  rid  of  Mr.  Mortimer. 
Triumphantly  she  rebutted  her  own  logic.  "  I  decided 
just  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  although  the  idea  had 
been  at  the  back  of  my  mind  all  day.  I  thought  in  bed 
this  morning  I  might  go  to  the  British  Museum,  but  it 
depended.  Now  I  have  decided."  She  slowly  counted  out 
money  from  her  purse. 

"  I'm  complex,"  she  said,  "  yes,  that's  it,"  while  she 
gathered  her  belongings,  smiling  as  she  nodded  to  the 
acquaintances  but  lately  detested.  "  It's  interesting." 

Walking  'quickly  from  the  restaurant  towards  the 
Museum  Mrs.  Cradock  tingled  with  an  involuntary  excite- 
ment. Neither  the  road  to  the  Museum  nor  the  Museum 
itself  were  very  new,  and  she  had  made  the  same  journey 


54  STILL  LIFE 

at  the  same  hour  many  times  before  ;  but  never  with  the 
same  pulsing  of  excited  apprehension.  She  had  nothing 
more  to  expect  than  before.  Indeed  she  was  not  one  to  be 
moved  profoundly  by  anything  in  the  Museum  except 
that  which  she  had  made  peculiarly  her  own  like  the 
room  of  the  Elgin  Marbles.  It  was  so  much  her  own 
that  she  felt  intimate  and  careless  among  them,  as  though 
she  were  at  home  in  her  own  room,  and  the  acceptance  of 
the  Marbles  into  intimacy  had  begun  many  years  before 
when  she  and  some  six  other  young  ladies  were  regularly 
conducted  thither  by  their  college  drawing-master  to  make 
meticulous  copies  of  the  Parthenon  pediment.  It  may 
have  been  she  felt  differently  towards  them  now,  and  that 
they  had  a  more  deeply  potent  relation  to  her,  because  the 
Elgin  Room  had  become  a  sure  refuge  and  her  principal 
asylum.  The  Marbles  always  soothed  her,  and  she  liked 
to  ascribe  her  quieting  to  a  mysterious  potency  belonging 
to  them  alone,  although  truly  she  spent  most  of  her  time 
before  them  in  thinking  of  her  delightful  drawing  after- 
noons. Although  there  were  always  these  delights  to  be 
expected  from  a  visit  to  the  room,  they  were  old  and 
familiar  delights,  to  which  she  could  look  forward  with 
the  security  of  a  moment's  promised  peace.  Her  blood 
ran  no  faster  before  them,  but  rather  its  motion  was  abated, 
and  in  the  slow  composing  of  her  agitations,  while  she 
walked  under  the  successive  archways  in  the  dark  red 
walls,  chiefly  consisted  their  perpetual  attraction.  But 
to-day  she  was  ascending  the  wide  steps  with  stranger 
feelings.  The  nearer  she  approached  the  room  the  more 
agitated  she  was,  and  as  she  passed  under  the  last  doorway 
and  saw  the  straight  line  of  the  familiar  pediment  stretch- 
ing up  and  away  from  her,  she  felt  faint  and  sick.  She 
had  had  a  dim  belief  that  somehow  everything  would  be 
changed  to  more  magnificent,  and  there  instead  were  the 
red  walls  and  the  yellow  varnished  seats,  all  as  she  remem- 
bered them,  but  now  a  little  dirtier  and  more  ordinary 
than  her  memory.  She  sat  down  upon  a  seat  that  was 


STILL  LIFE  55 

hers  by  prescriptive  right  and  stared  at  the  "  Three  Fates," 
wondering  if  these  things  really  had  any  influence  upon 
her.  She  suspected  that  her  words,  spoken  on  the  previous 
night,  now  so  distant,  were  merely  words.  If  there  were 
any  truth  in  them  it  could  be  proved  now,  for  now  if  ever 
she  felt  the  need  of  security  and  calm. 

Then  she  laughed  out  loud,  not  caring  if  all  the  keepers 
in  the  whole  Museum  should  apprehend  her.  "  Sheer  self- 
hypnotism,"  she  said.  She  was  a  bad  subject  that  day, 
and  very  rebellious,  knowing  that  the  attempt  to  compose 
herself  forcibly  was  bound  to  fail.  She  looked  about  her 
fearfully,  and  then  began  to  walk  behind  the  pedestals, 
half  to  hide  herself,  half  to  search. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Cradock,"  said  Maurice. 

She  said,  "  Good  afternoon,"  and  scrutinised  him  closely 
from  behind  her  veil.  He  looked  whiter  even  than  she  felt, 
and  she  knew  he  was  sick  with  joy  and  fear. 

"  How  strange  that  we  should  meet.  ..." 

"  I  came  to  see  if  what  we  said  last  night  is  really 
true,  Mr.  Temple." 

"So  did  I."  He  looked  on  to  the  floor.  "—What's  the 
use  of  lying  ?  I've  been  waiting  here  with  the  one  idea 
that  you  might  come.  I  can't  say  anything  at  all  about  it 
now,  you  see."  He  threw  his  head  back  and  laughed.  It 
was  a  curious  melodramatic  laugh,  as  of  the  hero  about  to 
kill  himself.  There  seemed  to  be  no  relation  between  it 
and  his  words. 

"  Have  you  had  any  lunch,  Mr.  Temple  ?  Jim — my 
husband — told  me  that  you  don't  look  after  yourself.  It's 
silly." 

Maurice  was  slightly  offended. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  he  said  precisely.  "  Besides,  it  will 
be  tea-time  soon." 

"  Did  you  say  that  you  have  been  waiting  here  with  the 
idea  that  I  might  come  ?  Why,  it's  the  merest  chance  that 
I  did.  I  happened  to  be  lunching  out  not  far  away,  and 
it's  one  of  my  favourite  resting-places." 


56  STILL  LIFE 

"  I  felt  sure  it  would  be, — somehow — after  last  night," 
he  added.  "  That's  why  I  came." 

"  Do  you  seriously  mean  to  say  that  you  came  here  to 
see  me  ?  " 

She  felt  suddenly  that  it  was  unfair  to  hide  any  longer 
behind  her  veil,  yet  she  dared  not  put  her  veil  up. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  he  said  stubbornly.  "  I  wanted  to  see 
you,  and  I  didn't  know  how.  Then  I  thought  you  might 
be  here."  He  spoke  hurriedly.  ;'  Then  I  felt  sure  of  it, 
and  I  said  to  myself  if  she's  there,  then  it  will  be  all  right, 
certain.  So  it  was."  He  was  staring  at  the  shining 
grating  beneath  his  feet,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  tapping 
with  one  shoe.  "  Oh,  I'm  an  awful  fool." 

"  What  will  be  all  right,  Mr.  Temple  ?  Do  I  get  it  too  ? 
I'm  fond  of  good  omens." 

"  Oh,  don't  you  know  ?  Don't  you  ever  do  it  ?  Some- 
times, if  you  get  into  bed  before  the  clock  strikes  it's 
all  right,  and  if  you  don't  it's  bad.  Sometimes  I  have  to 
take  off  my  shirt  in  bed." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  She  had  control  of  herself  now 
and  of  the  conversation.  Then,  as  though  recollecting 
herself,  "  I  know.  It's  the  same  as  always  stepping  on 
the  crack  between  the  paving  stones.  If  you  don't  miss, 
everything's  all  right." 

;<  Yes,  that's  it.    It's  just  the  same." 

"  So  it's  all  right  after  aU.  I'm  glad.  I'd  like  to  think 
you  were  going  to  have  good  luck." 

He  paused  a  moment.  "  But  it's  not  only  me,  you 
know."  He  checked  himself.  "  You  must  think  I'm 
mad,"  he  said  simply. 

"  No,  I  don't,  really.  I'm  every  bit  as  mad  myself. 
I  know  exactly  what  you  mean.  Besides,  I'm  glad  to  have 
met  you  here.  But  let's  go  and  look  at  something." 

"  I'm  no  good  to-day,  Mrs.  Cradock.  I've  been  looking 
at  things  too  long.  They  seem  to  wobble  a  bit  in  my  eyes." 

"  I  believe  you've  been  waiting  here  a  very  long  while. 
Didn't  you  see  me  when  I  came  in  at  first  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  57 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  didn't  you  speak  to  me,  then  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  upset  about  something.  Besides, 
I  couldn't  have  walked  up  to  you.  I  hadn't  got  the  nerve 
then.  It  took  a  frightful  lot  of  doing,  afterwards." 

She  understood  perfectly,  yet  she  wanted  to  hear  him 
explain. 

"  But  you're  not  frightened  of  me,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.    That's  not  it." 

"  What  was  it  ?    Do  tell  me  ?  " 

;<  You  can't  explain  it,  really.  I  just  hadn't  got  the 
nerve.  It  seemed  so  important,  and  I  felt  that  I'd  rather 
not  try  than  mess  everything  up.  You  see,  you  might  just 
have  nodded  and  gone  on.  I  don't  know  what  I  would 
have  done  then.  Or  you  might  not  even  have  noticed  me. 
I  think  that  would  have  been  better  than  the  other.  But 
I'm  not  telling  you  anything.  You  know  what  I  mean, 
don't  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Cradock  nodded  "  Yes  "  very  slowly. 

"  But  still  I  did  manage  it,  after  all." 

He  smiled  as  though  he  expected  her  to  acknowledge  an 
achievement. 

"  Are  you  pleased  ?  "  she  said  instead. 

"  Oh,  yes."  He  stopped  suddenly.  "  At  least,  I  don't 
know.  I'm  not  sure.  But  are  you  ?  please  tell  me." 

"  Shall  we  go  outside  ?  It's  rather  stuffy  in  here,  and 
it's  a  wonderful  day  outside.  We're  not  looking  out  for 
harmonies  very  much,  are  we  ?  Although  they're  what 
we  really  came  for." 

They  moved  together  through  the  gallery,  both  treading 
bravely,  even  noisily,  because  they  were  fearful  of  their 
footsteps.  Maurice,  she  saw,  was  nervous  and  restless, 
and  she  longed  to  put  up  her  veil  to  reassure  him,  but  she 
had  not  the  courage.  He,  able  to  divine  nothing  from  her 
expression  and  little  from  her  voice,  in  which  he  seemed 
always  to  detect  a  note  of  raillery  which  frightened  him, 
was  so  agitated  and  apprehensive  that  he  made  random 


58  STILL  LIFE 

and  incoherent  remarks,  and  she  made  haste  to  answer  as 
though  she  understood. 

"  We  ought  to  be  processional — through  the  doorways 
— just  like  an  old  temple — one  after  the  other,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  always  feel  that.  I  have  a  great  idea  sometimes 
that  I'm  a  priestess  of  Isis."  She  wondered  whether  "  one 
after  the  other  "  meant  that  they  were  so  to  walk,  or 
referred  to  the  vista  of  doorways.  "  Isis,  yes,  that's  me," 
she  laughed.  "  I  must  have  a  degenerate  mind.  I  don't 
know  how  many  times  I've  looked  at  the  women  on  the 
frieze  with  the  robe  and  admired  them,  and  yet  I  want  to 
be  something  to  do  with  Isis.  I  think  I  like  a  mystery 
in  a  woman.  Too  much  transparence  is  insipid."  She 
knew  that  she  was  talking  foolishly  to  save  him  a  little ; 
but  her  words  began  to  alarm  her.  She  felt  she  dared  to 
say  nothing  that  was  untrue,  because  she  was  being  taken 
seriously  in  every  word.  "  And  yet  I  must  be  honest. 
Yes,  I  should  be  a  poor  Isis,  when  I  come  to  think  of  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  would.  I  don't  know.  But  you  can't 
get  away  from  the  mystery  altogether.  I  can't.  The  more 
honest  I  try  to  be  the  more  I  seem  to  deceive  myself — and 
other  people." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  At  least,  I  think  I  do.  When 
I  try  to  straighten  myself  out,  there's  always  two  of  me. 
One's  absolutely  honest  and  callous,  the  other's  just  secret. 
The  trouble  is  I  don't  quite  believe  in  either  of  them. 
There,  I'm  being  what  Mrs.  Fortescue  would  call  a  mystic. 
.  .  .  That's  what  always  happens.  If  I  try  to  be  honest 
I'm  unintelligible." 

"  Oh,  no,  you're  not.  That's  just  it."  He  was  eager  in 
assent.  They  were  standing  on  the  top  of  the  steps 
vaguely  looking  towards  the  pigeons  in  the  courtyard. 
"  I  suppose  a  woman  has  even  more  of  it  than  a  man, 
because  she  has  so  many  more  opportunities  for  running 
up  against  it." 

"  How  do  you  mean  exactly  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  always  think  that  men  have  a  fixed  idea  about 


STILL  LIFE  59 

women.  They  generally  say  they  don't  understand  them, 
which  is  just  as  big  a  lie  as  saying  that  they  do, — it's  just 
the  same  lie,  really,  because  it  means  that  they  never 
believe  that  there's  anything  to  understand.  So  a  woman 
has  only  to  play  with  the  outside  of  her  mind  to  satisfy 
them  completely.  All  the  time  really  she's  working  back 
on  herself  into  her  own  mind. 

"  I  don't  say  men  are  very  different  with  men,"  he  went 
on,  "  but  they  do  allow  the  eccentric  and  they  are  curious 
about  him.  They  do  try  to  get  behind  a  little  sometimes. 
But  I  suppose  there  are  all  sorts  of  women.  I  don't  know 
very  much  about  them."  He  raised  his  eyes  from  the 
ground  and  looked  for  a  moment  directly  at  her.  "  You 
see  I'm  nearly  saying  the  same  thing  as  the  other  men. 
But  I  never  said  there  weren't  any  difficulties.  It  would 
take  some  work  to  get  behind  Mrs.  Fortescue,  wouldn't 
it?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  would.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
her,  at  all  events.  I  think  you're  right,  in  general,  though. 
Let's  go  and  have  that  tea.  It's  time." 

Mrs.  Cradock  ran  down  the  steps  and  Maurice  followed. 
He  had  tried  deviously  to  tell  her  that  he  thought  that  her 
mind  was  like  his  own,  and  he  suspected  that  he  had  done 
it  ridiculously.  Nevertheless  she  had  helped  him  and 
listened  to  him,  even  agreed  with  him.  But  he  was  still 
nervous  lest  she  should  think  him  wearisome  and  awkward. 
Yet  for  all  his  misgivings  he  was  glad  to  be  with  her,  and 
his  gladness  coloured  everything.  If  only  he  could  stop 
and  take  count,  and  know  what  she  felt.  Two  phrases 
continually  danced  about  in  his  mind  while  he  walked 
with  her  along  the  narrow  street.  "  He's  a  nice  boy  " 
repeated  itself.  It  sounded  like  a  music-hall  song. 

"  We  shan't  have  much  more  of  this  sun,"  said  Mrs. 
Cradock.  "  It's  getting  thin  and  cold  already." 

"  No,"  he  said  automatically.  He  had  noticed  nothing 
of  it  all  the  day.  "  Have  more  pity  on  yourself — more 
pity  on  yourself  "  echoed  in  his  brain. 


60  STILL  LIFE 

In  a  cushioned  corner  that  overlooked  the  street,  they 
sat  saying  nothing.  He  looked  sideways  at  her,  pretending 
that  he  was  dreamy,  so  that  he  could  regard  her  the  more 
carefully.  Through  the  veil,  which  was  heavy  and  chequered 
with  black,  he  could  see  little  more  than  the  light  in  her 
eyes.  Yet  something  was  perfectly  familiar  to  him,  and 
he  thought  that  it  must  be  the  shape  of  her  neck.  But  he 
felt  vaguely  that  it  was  something  more  tangible,  not  merely 
the  neck  but  the  framing  of  the  neck.  At  his  discovery  he 
nearly  uttered  a  cry.  The  grey-mauve  ruffle  of  gauze  was 
the  same  that  she  had  worn  last  night.  Yet  it  could  not 
be  the  same,  for  he  remembered  perfectly  that  she  had 
worn  a  long  dress,  not  a  blouse. 

"  Day-dreaming,  Mr.  Temple  ?  "  she  said.  And  he 
flushed.  "  The  spring  day  makes  me  very  tired,  too.  I'd 
only  just  wakened  myself." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  wasn't  dreaming."  He  was  in  haste  to  repel 
the  suggestion,  reproachfully.  "  I  was.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I 
was  dreaming.  ...  It  all  depends.  I  wouldn't  have 
called  it  dreaming,  though." 

Tea  was  set  before  them,  and  Mrs.  Cradock  raised  her 
veil.  Suddenly  Maurice  felt  much  more  secure. 

"  What  would  you  have  called  it  then  ?  "  she  said  smiling, 
as  she  began  to  pour  the  tea. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  was  interested  in  something,  thinking 
hard  about  it ;  but  I  wasn't  dreaming." 

"  What  was  it  ?    Please  tell  me." 

He  gulped  the  words  out.  "  I  am  wondering  whether 
you  wore  that  dress  on  purpose.  It's  the  same  as  last 
night,  you  see.  It's  fixed  in  my  mind."  At  the  same 
moment,  with  the  same  words,  he  was  asserting  and  defend- 
ing himself. 

"  On  purpose  !  "  she  said.  "  Why  should  I  ?  What  a 
strange  idea  !  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is.  But  I  do  have  them  sometimes — 
strange  ideas  .  .  .  I'm  very  sorry."  He  paused  a  moment. 
"  D'you  know  what  it  is  ?  I'm  frightened  to  death  by  the 


STILL  LIFE  61 

thought  that  you'll  find  me  ridiculous.  I'm  quite  .  .  . 
helpless  !  Oh  !  "  He  jerked  back  his  head  in  despair. 
"  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  me,  really.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  you,  and  you  know  all  about  me.  It's  not 
fair." 

She  leaned  forward  a  little  on  the  table  and  stretched 
out  her  hand  towards  him  until  it  touched  his.  He  took  it, 
hopelessly,  seeing  in  the  gesture  only  one  more  incompre- 
hensible. She  clasped  his  hand  firmly.  "  I  like  you  very 
much,  Mr.  Temple.  I'm  only  anxious  about  you.  Please 
don't  think  I'm  laughing  at  you.  I  couldn't  do  it."  His 
misery  didn't  seem  to  change.  "  Oh,  what  would  you  have 
me  do  ?  I'm  happy  to  be  with  you.  What  do  you  want  ? 
You  see  it  isn't  a  game  for  me.  I  wish  I  could  make  you 
happy.  Will  it  be  any  good  if  I  say  that  I  came  here  just 
to  see  you,  to-day  ?  .  .  .  I  did." 

The  astonishment  first  of  incredulity,  then  of  a  sudden 
conviction,  seized  him. 

"  I'm  just  a  fool,"  he  said  desponding.  "  I  didn't  mean 
to  worry  you  like  that.  But  I  was  so  miserable.  I  am 
all  right  now,  though."  Indeed  he  was  smiling.  Mrs. 
Cradock  still  held  his  hand.  "  Why  do  you  like  me  ?  "  he 
said. 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  " 

"I  thought  you'd  know  somehow.  You  see,  I  don't 
know  why  I  like  you,  except  because  you  seem  perfectly 
different  from  any  other  woman.  There  is  nothing  to 
take  hold  of  in  you  and  say,  '  That's  not  good  enough. 
You're  perfect.  But  I  know  I'm  not.  Anyone  can  see 
that,  and  everybody  knows  it.  So  I  thought  perhaps 
you'd  know." 

"  I  don't,  really,"  she  protested. 

"  But  you  don't  think  you'll  be  tired  of  me  soon  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  But  you  don't  know  how  happy  I  am  now,"  he  went 
on.  "  I  feel  safe  with  you,  and  I  never  feel  safe  when  I'm 
alone.  I  haven't  thought  of  anything  else  except  you 


62  STILL  LIFE 

since  last  night,  and  that  seems  years  ago.  Somehow  I 
knew  you  would  be  there  to-day,  but  everything  said  I 
was  a  fool.  And  I  waited  and  waited,  but  I  always  believed 
you'd  come,  somehow." 

She  was  glad  that  she  had  calmed  him  ;  and  in  calming 
him  she  had  calmed  herself.  She  too  felt  secure.  "  We 
must  go  now,"  she  said. 

"  Must  we  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  have  to  get  home  to  dinner.  We've  been 
here  a  long  time." 

"  But  we've  hardly  said  anything." 

"  Why  should  we  ?  " 

Maurice  watched  her  pay,  thinking  of  what  the  last 
words  might  mean.  He  felt  that  he  was  being  accused  in 
them,  and  rightly  accused.  She  must  have  misunder- 
stood what  he  meant  by  talking  about  things.  He  wanted 
her  to  speak  about  herself.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  all  about 
himself  too.  Those  things  weren't  unimportant ;  yet  he 
felt  that  she  was  right.  There  really  wasn't  anything  else 
to  say.  The  trouble  was  that  she  was  infinitely  bigger  than 
he.  He  was  childish  while  she  was  serene. 

They  walked  together  through  a  square,  whose  solid 
black  buildings  stood  out  against  the  sunset  sky.  He  had 
not  noticed  anything  until  she  pointed  out  the  beauty  to 
him,  but  he  acquiesced.  ;'  You're  worrying  about  some- 
thing still,"  she  said. 

"  I  want  to  know  when  I  shall  see  you  again.  It's  use- 
less. I  shall  have  to  wait  days  and  days.  I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do  when  you  go  away.  I  suppose  I  shan't 
believe  it  for  a  long  while.  But  I  shall  have  to,  and  then 
I  don't  know  what  I'll  do." 

His  words  struck  suddenly  cold  upon  her,  cold  and 
heavy,  heavy.  Suddenly  she  was  one  of  those  women  she 
had  seen  at  the  end  of  a  windy  day  bowed  and  beaten  by 
the  weight  of  the  dark  heavy  child  they  carried.  She 
longed  to  fling  away  this  love,  to  lift  up  her  arms  and  her 
breast  and  be  free. 


STILL  LIFE  63 

"  We  just  can't  see  each  other.  It's  impossible.  You 
can  see  that,  can't  you  ?  Oh,  you  must.  .  .  ."  She  watched 
his  face,  again  her  words  were  not  her  own.  They  shaped 
themselves  apart  from  her,  on  every  movement  of  his  eyes 
and  lips.  "  D'you  think  I  don't  want  to  see  you  ?  No, 
you  can't  think  that.  .  .  .  But  you  don't  know  what  it 
means.  You're  a  child.  ...  I  don't  mean  that.  But 
things  seem  easy  to  you,  and  they're  not." 

Maurice  stood  still,  looking  at  her,  powerless  before  the 
impossibility  which  he  dimly  saw.  She  comprehended  so 
much  more  than  he.  His  simplicities  were  her  complexities. 
Her  language  would  not  translate  into  his,  and  he  could 
say  nothing. 

"  Oh,  it's  no  use  worrying  or  planning,"  she  went  on. 
"  We  can  be  happy  enough  sometimes,  can't  we — Maurice?" 
She  used  his  name,  desperately,  tormenting  herself,  yet 
hoping  to  conjure  away  the  misery  which  threatened  him 
through  her.  "  Yes,  there  will  be  plenty  of  opportunities, 
if  you  come  to  think  about  it.  After  all,"  she  laughed, 
"  we  can't  monopolise  each  other  ?  " 

"  But  when  ?  "  he  said  with  the  obstinacy  of  a  child. 
"  It's  all  very  well  to  say  there  will  be  plenty  of  oppor- 
tunities. What's  the  good  of  that  to  me  ?  I  can't  go  on 
just  waiting  for  opportunities.  It  would  be  like  this 
morning  all  over  again,  day  after  day.  I  can't  stand  it." 

A  momentary  anger  took  possession  of  her  again ;  again 
she  was  bowed  and  bent  and  beaten. 

"  But  don't  you,  can't  you,  see  that  it's  hard  for 
me  ?  ...  Oh,  don't  let's  muddle  things  to-day.  I'll  see 
you  to-morrow." 

"Will  you?  Why,  that's  all  I  wanted."  The  ring 
came  back  into  his  voice. 

She  could  not  help  laughing.  "  Yes,  that's  all  you 
wanted,"  she  repeated.  "  But  I  will.  Don't  be  frightened." 
All  the  traffic  roared  dizzily  before  their  eyes  as  they 
halted  irresolutely  on  the  kerb.  The  lights,  dingy  with 
the  last  gleams  of  the  sunlight,  were  dotted  palely  far 


64  STILL  LIFE 

away.  "  Don't  let's  go  to  the  Museum  again ;  that's 
over  now." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  uncomprehending. 

"  Where  shall  we  meet,  then  ?  It  must  be  the  after- 
noon." 

He  hesitated.  "  Will  you  come  to  have  tea  with  me  ? 
I  wish  you  would.  It  would  be  wonderful.  37  Vauxhall 
Embankment.  .  .  .  It's  a  funny  place,  and  out  of  the 
way.  But  I  could  meet  you  somewhere  else  and  take  you 
there,  if  you  would." 

"  I  know  where  it  is,"  she  said,  "  and  how  to  get  there. 
Yes  I'll  come,  at  half-past  four.  You'll  be  kind  to  me  ? 
I  must  go  now." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  had  already  half  turned  away 
when  she  took  it,  and  when  he  pressed  it  and  tried  to  see 
her  face  it  was  wholly  turned  away.  He  followed  her 
desperately  with  his  eyes  to  see  whether  she  would  turn 
round.  She  did  not. 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  nearly  dark  when  Anne  Cradock  reached  home. 
She  was  very  cold  and  tired.  She  could  not  help,  as  she 
rode  upon  an  omnibus  homewards,  contrasting  the  ex- 
hilaration with  which  she  had  set  out  and  the  numbness 
that  now  invaded  her.  The  brief  light  had  shown  only  the 
depth  of  the  darkness  in  which  she  was  enveloped.  She 
blindly  comforted  herself  with  the  thought  that  something 
would  happen,  because  something  was  bound  to  happen. 
She  blamed  herself  for  having  sacrificed  too  much  that 
day,  for  having  resigned  her  defences,  her  very  self.  Yet 
she  had  left  Maurice  happy,  and  that  was  right,  whatever 
it  should  have  cost  to  make  him  happy  ;  or  rather  it  was 
wrong  to  leave  him  unhappy.  But  why  should  a  boy's 
happiness  tyrannise  over  her  ?  He  was  only  a  boy,  whose 
misery  would  be  easily  forgotten  with  another  comforter. 
She  would  not  think  of  that  again. 

The  green  and  white  house  looked  obvious  and  paltry 
when  she  stood  before  the  gate.  It  was  an  enemy,  too, 
ready  to  swallow  her  up.  The  jaws  yawned  before 
her  as  the  door  opened.  A  strong  voice  sounded  from 
above,  echoing  down  the  stairs.  She  was  tired,  and  she 
hated  strong  voices.  Their  strength  was  an  insult,  pointed 
to  remind  her  that  she  had  forgotten  the  key  by  which 
existence  in  that  house  was  modulated.  She  flung  herself 
down  upon  a  seat  in  the  hall ;  then,  suddenly  aware  that 
the  maid  was  regarding  her  curiously,  "  I'm  very  tired. 
The  day  has  been  too  much  for  me." 

"  The  master's  calling  you,  rn'm." 

Cradock  was  clattering  violently  down  the  stairs.    She 

F  65 


66  STILL  LIFE 

seemed  to  wake  out  of  a  dream  of  voices  and  attach  the 
strong  and  insistent  one  to  him.  She  rose  and  saw  him, 
ludicrously  big  at  the  top  of  the  narrow  stairs. 

"  Hullo,  Anne,  you're  late.    Didn't  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  did.  I'm  awfully  tired.  It  must  be 
the  beginning  of  spring." 

"  Yes,  that's  it.  You've  done  too  much  to-day.  Why, 
you've  been  out  since  the  morning  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  must  have  been  a  long  while." 

"  Cheer  up.  You  want  your  dinner.  I  know  I  do.  Only 
ten  minutes." 

"  I  don't  think  I  do,  Jim.  I'm  frightfully  tired,  and 
I've  a  headache.  I'll  go  upstairs  and  rest."  She  knew 
that  she  was  no  longer  sure  of  herself,  not  even  sure 
enough  to  win  through  a  dinner  opposite  to  him,  to  engage 
and  answer  him  for  half  an  hour. 

"  Oh."  He  looked  disappointed.  "  I  didn't  know  it  was 
as  bad  as  that.  I'm  very  sorry,  Anne.  And  I  have  to  go 
to  the  play  to-night.  Would  you  rather  that  I  didn't  ?  I 
dare  say  I  could  manage  to  get  Jamieson  to  go,  I'm 
sure  I  could." 

"I'm  a  fraud,  Jim.  That's  what's  the  matter.  And 
you're  a  great  dear.  But  I  shall  probably  be  all  right  in  half 
an  hour.  Please  don't  worry  young  Jamieson  again.  It's 
not  at  all  serious.  Besides,  even  if  it  were,  I  should  only 
get  worse  by  thinking  that  Jamieson  was  doing  it  instead 
of  you,  and  making  a  mess  of  everything.  I  hate  anybody 
else  doing  your  work.  It's  bad  enough  when  you're  ill 
yourself." 

"  I  do  like  doing  it,  that's  true." 

She  began  to  mount  the  stairs.  "  Well,  then  .  .  .  Good- 
bye. .  .  .  But  you'll  come  and  look  at  me  before  you  go. 
Don't  go  telephoning  to  old  Gumming  behind  my  back. 
I'd  never  forgive  you,  if  he  came  round  and  felt  my  pulse. 
4  My  dear  lady,  j^ou've  been  overdoing  it.'  Though  he 
knows  it's  a  perfect  sham.  It  really  is,  you  know.  But  I 
think  I  enjoy  shams." 


STILL  LIFE  67 

"All  right,  I  won't,  honour  bright.  I'll  give  you  the 
guinea  though — a  reward  for  economy." 

"  Admirable."  Fatigue  was  in  her  voice,  in  the  word 
itself.  "  Don't  forget  there's  a  new  bottle  of  Vermouth." 

She  saw  him  take  out  a  cigarette-case  as  she  turned  the 
corner.  Her  room  was  lighted  by  the  flames  of  a  newly 
kindled  fire.  She  turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 

She  lay  comfortably  in  an  armchair  and  contemplated 
herself  in  the  mirror.  "  You're  pale,"  she  said.  "  You 
look  tired,  very  tired." 

Anne  Cradock  was  thirty-two  years  old,  and  to-night 
the  darker  shadows  under  her  eyes  and  a  curious  pallor  in 
her  face  lent  to  her  a  certain  agelessness.  She  was 
pleased  to  find  herself  mysterious  to-night,  as  though 
suddenly  she  had  beheld  an  aspect  of  herself  hidden  from 
her  ordinary  eyes,  and  could  enjoy  the  sight  of  it  without 
any  afterthought  of  vanity.  .  .  . 

The  position  was  ridiculous.  She  was  allowing  her- 
self to  fall  in  love  with  a  boy  who  talked  about  "  har- 
monies of  the  soul."  That  was  foolishness  number  one. 
She  duly  ticked  it  of!  upon  her  fingers,  glad  to  intro- 
duce something  solid  into  the  confusion  of  her  thoughts 
and  feelings.  Secondly,  she  had  wanted  to  fall  in  love 
with  him.  It  was  proved.  She  had  meant  all  the 
while  to  go  and  look  for  him  in  the  Museum  that  day. 
Thirdly,  he  was  very  young,  a  boy,  and  though  he  prob- 
ably imagined  that  he  was  in  love  with  her,  he  did  not 
know  anything  about  it.  Fourthly,  she  had  pledged  her- 
self to  go  and  see  him  in  his  rooms  to-morrow,  which  was 
reprehensible  and  childish.  Fifthly,  she  had  allowed  him 
to  fall  in  love  with  her,  or  to  imagine  that  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  her,  all  in  one  day,  though  she  might  perfectly 
well  have  done  nothing  of  the  sort. . . . 

She  made  a  petulant  gesture  of  restraint,  displeased 
because  she  realised  that  her  arguments  were  superficial 
and  wholly  unrelated  to  the  truth  which  she  felt,  disgusted 
at  her  own  helplessness  before  the  mechanical  triviality  of 


68  STILL  LIFE 

her  thought,  which  would  not  engage  with  the  reality. 
She  could  exert  no  compulsion  upon  it.  All  that  she  could 
do  was  to  stop  the  ineffectual  revolutions  of  her  mind,  and 
to  allow  herself  to  collapse,  thinking  of  nothing  at  all. 

As  she  lay  back  in  the  chair,  outstretched  towards  the 
fire,  vague  sensations  of  fatigue,  of  isolation  and  of  warmth 
clouded  about  her,  but  after  a  moment  there  began  an 
insistent  undertone,  though  not  sensation  and  hardly 
thought,  yet  strangely  real.  At  first  it  seemed  to  be  a 
consciousness  of  wrong-doing.  At  the  suggestion  her  mind 
was  once  more  alert.  She  refused  to  admit,  as  she  had 
always  refused  to  admit,  any  obligation  upon  her  emotions. 
Faithlessness  towards  her  husband  was  an  impossibility. 
The  word  no  longer  fitted  the  act  in  her  case.  There  was 
too  much  honesty  in  their  genuine  affection  and  too  much 
indifference  in  their  mutual  aloofness  to  admit  of  any 
tragic  interpretation  of  a  fact  which  they  both  understood. 
She  would  do  what  she  liked  securely,  confident,  because 
she  had  never  pretended  to  do  anything  else.  But  now 
she  was  neither  secure  nor  confident.  Something  in  the 
quality  of  the  day's  happenings  was  wrong,  and  the  wrong 
had  been  done  to  herself,  even  though  for  a  moment  she 
persisted  in  regarding  it  as  wrong  done  to  the  boy.  "  I 
have  cheapened  myself  in  his  eyes."  It  was  untrue.  The 
faith  which  Maurice  had  so  obviously  given  to  her  had  in  it 
no  element  of  calculation  or  criticism.  Besides,  she  had 
done  nothing  which  he  might  criticise.  She  was  ashamed 
of  nothing  in  the  day.  It  was  a  regret,  a  mistake  which 
now  occupied  her.  She  had  succumbed  to  an  overwhelm- 
ing pity  for  a  nature  which  she  understood,  she  thought, 
completely,  and  pity  would  not  last  them  long.  Inevitably 
each  would  demand  something  more,  she  the  more  quickly 
by  far,  something  which  could  not  be  given.  Why,  she  was 
seeking  for  it  now,  and  blaming  herself  because  she  had 
ventured  so  much  without  it. 

She  stretched  her  hands  behind  her  neck  and  clasped 
them.  The  attitude  expressed  her  relief  that  she  had  come 


STILL  LIFE  69 

to  some  understanding  of  what  had  happened  to  her  that 
day.  She  laughed  at  herself  a  little,  as  her  habit  was,  be- 
cause her  conclusions  always  seemed  transparently  plain. 
"  No  one  would  believe  that  I  have  to  work  hard  to  get 
there,"  she  said  to  herself.  Everything  was  straight- 
forward. It  would  not  really  be  very  difficult  to  explain  to 
the  boy.  She  could  talk  her  own  language  to  him,  confident 
that  he  would  understand  the  Tightness  of  her  deci?;on. 
Perhaps  he  would  not  have  to  sacrifice  anything.  There 
was  no  reason  why  the  security  which  he  felt  with  her 
should  not  endure.  ..."  Oh,  I  won't  go  on  with  this,"  she 
said. 

She  had  forgotten  to  take  off  her  clothes.  Jim  would  be 
up  in  a  moment.  Hurriedly  she  took  them  off  and  put  on 
a  dressing-gown.  She  found  David  Copperfield  by  the  side 
of  her  bed,  and  sat  down  in  the  armchair  poising  the  book 
on  her  knees,  turning  over  the  leaves  to  find  the  old,  jam- 
stained  pictures  of  her  nursery  days.  She  looked  at  Peg- 
gotty's  house  by  the  sea,  and  it  floated  off  as  she  looked  at 
it,  drumming  with  her  fingers  upon  the  arms  of  the  chair. 

After  a  few  minutes  Cradock  came  in  to  ask  how  she  felt 
and  to  say  good-bye  before  he  went  away  to  the  theatre. 
He  scolded  her  in  some  boyish,  half-serious  words  because 
she  had  not  eaten  the  food  he  had  sent  up  to  her,  but  her 
reply  that  she  couldn't,  although  she  had  tried,  completely 
satisfied  him.  The  atmosphere  of  his  big  physical  perfec- 
tions enveloped  all  her  wilfulness  and  contrariety  in  a 
subtle  security.  He  was  habitually  so  much  at  peace  within 
himself  that  he  could  regard  all  his  experiences  with  a 
calm  and  uncomprehending  tolerance,  and  of  these  experi- 
ences she  was  in  the  end  only  one,  more  prolonged  and  in 
itself  more  various  than  others,  but  yet  to  be  received  with 
an  infinite  good  humour,  to  be  accepted  rather  than 
criticised,  and  indulged  rather  than  understood.  As  this 
attitude  had  in  him  been  always  instinctive,  so  had  she 
come  to  take  it  for  granted  and  to  be  glad  that  so  much 
warmth  could  endure  with  so  little  friction,  for  she  knew 


70  STILL  LIFE 

and  felt  that  he  was  to  the  limit  of  his  power  in  love  with 
her,  and  though  this  was  no  more  than  a  considerable 
affection  it  surrounded  her  with  a  benignant  and  paternal 
adoration,  guarded  by  which  she  could  be  careless  and  free. 
There  was  no  need  to  deceive  him  in  anything,  because  on 
the  few  occasions  when  she  had  attempted  to  tell  the  truth 
about  herself,  he  had  been  distracted,  comprehending 
nothing,  sure  that  he  was  deeply  understanding  when  he 
had  stroked  her  hair  and  had  dismissed  the  attempted 
exposure  as  fanciful.  All  her  oppositions  had  fallen  within 
herself  since  she  had  been  married  to  him.  He  never 
attempted  to  assert  himself  against  her  or  dominate  over 
the  temperament  which  he  recognised  in  her  as  a  peculiar, 
curious  and  fragile  thing,  exactly  as  he  might  have  regarded 
a  nest  of  carved  ivory  boxes  made  by  the  subtle  Chinese, 
estimating  it  as  precious  because  it  was  intricate  and  not 
lightly  to  be  disturbed. 

She  had  no  impulse  therefore  actively  to  maintain  herself 
against  any  encroachments  from  him,  but  eventually  she 
had  apprehended  a  dim  danger  of  being  weakened  by  this 
very  lack  of  opposition.  Almost  instinctively  she  set  great 
value  on  her  inward  conflicts,  as  affording  her  some  proof 
of  an  active  life  which  she  might  otherwise  have  doubted, 
and  she  had  soon  reached  a  strange  degree  of  explicitness 
in  her  debates  with  herself.  Indeed,  she  felt  some  pride  in 
the  completeness  with  which  she  could  follow  out  a  dialogue 
between  her  two  selves  for  hours  on  end,  and  in  the  thorough- 
ness of  the  deception  by  which  her  voice,  when  she  talked 
to  herself,  seemed  to  have  a  really  stranger  sound.  Yet  all 
the  time  she  was  conscious  that  these  evolutions  were  con- 
ducted within  the  safety  of  the  haze  of  Jim's  comprehen- 
sive affection,  and  sometimes  she  was  near  to  regretting 
that  the  affection  lacked  some  quality  which  would  have 
rendered  the  whole  process  silly  and  inconceivable. 

At  the  moment  when  Jim  bent  over  her  chair,  looking 
at  her  book,  which  he  despised  as  sentimental,  she  could 
not  help  wondering  how  it  was  possible  that  she  could 


STILL  LIFE  71 

enjoy  the  safe  protection  which  his  devotion  afforded  her, 
while  her  mind  was  still  occupied  with  the  decision  which 
she  had  triumphantly  made.  If  she  could  only  have  found 
some  point  of  solid  antagonism  in  her  husband  the  situation 
would  not  have  been  so  ridiculous.  It  would  be  easy  to 
make  one,  she  thought  for  a  moment,  watching  his  big 
hands  folded  over  hers,  by  telling  him  that  the  whole 
business  was  rubbish,  and  that  in  a  day  she  had  fallen 
in  love  with  young  Temple  and  out  again.  In  a 
second  she  knew  that  it  would  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  no 
matter  how  much  she  might  insist,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  he  would  never  believe  it,  nor  even,  not  believing, 
have  any  suspicion  that  it  might  conceivably  be  true. 

"  Jim,  aren't  you  appallingly  stupid  about  me  ?  "  she 
said  to  him. 

"  Appallingly,"  he  agreed. 

"  Why  can't  you  really  be  serious  about  me  ?  Why 
don't  you  just  for  once  have  an  idea  that  I'm  unfaith- 
ful, or,  if  that's  too  definite,  imagine  that  I'm  compro- 
mising myself  with  somebody.  You  don't  know  how 
exciting  it  would  make  life  for  you  for  a  day  or  two."  Her 
heart  was  beating  hard  now,  for  this  was  exciting  and 
adventurous.  On  an  impulse  she  kicked  her  slipper  on  to 
the  fire.  It  was  covered  with  lace,  which  caught  instantly 
into  flame,  leaving  little  red  lines  glowing  where  the  pattern 
had  been.  "  There,"  she  said,  "  you  can't  understand 
that,  can  you  now  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  damned  if  I  can.    They  were  jolly  slippers." 

In  the  silence  the  glass  beads  from  the  burnt  slipper 
tinkled  into  the  fender. 

"  Say  you'll  take  the  guinea  away  from  me  that  you 
promised.  Do  !  " 

"  But  I  shan't ;  you  know  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Give  it  me  now,  then,  now." 

"  I  don't  believe  I've  got  it."  He  removed  his  hands 
from  hers  and  stood  upright  behind  her  chair,  feeling  in 
his  pockets.  He  found  a  sovereign  and  a  shilling  and  gave 


72  STILL   LIFE 

them  to  her.  She  rose  from  the  chair  with  the  money 
clasped  tight  in  one  hand,  facing  him.  He  was  looking  at 
her  steadily,  his  lips  parted  a  little  in  his  habitual  smile,  in 
which  showed  something  of  the  tolerant  sympathy  he  felt. 
He  was  smiling  because  he  did  not  understand,  to  conceal 
his  ignorance  and  uncertainty.  Quickly  yet  awkwardly, 
with  a  sudden  gesture  of  her  hand  as  a  child  throwing  a 
ball,  she  flung  the  money  at  the  electric  light  which  hung 
before  the  mirror  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  The  bulb 
shattered. 

"  Why,  what's  up,  Anne  ?  "  Before  he  had  time  to 
reach  her,  she  was  in  her  chair,  crying  quietly,  and  weakly 
laughing. 

"  You're  nervous-tired,  darling."  Jim  bent  over  her 
and  stroked  her  hands. 

"  I'm  sorry — look  for  my  money,  dear,  there's  a  dear, 
Jim,  please." 

He  left  her  with  a  show  of  reluctance,  and,  striking  a 
match,  hunted  among  the  gleams  of  the  broken  glass  on  the 
floor.  He  was  not  quite  comfortable.  He  was  always 
frightened,  against  his  certain  judgment,  when  she  did  such 
things,  as  she  had  done  once  or  twice  before,  and  he  was 
uneasy  in  his  effort  to  treat  them  as  occurrences  perfectly 
natural.  Once,  the  first  time,  she  had  hurled  a  glass  from 
the  dinner  table  against  the  wall,  and  he,  to  show  that  he 
too  had  the  same  impulse,  had  thrown  his.  Then  he  had 
felt  ridiculous,  and  known  that  she  found  him  ridiculous 
too.  He  was  glad  to  be  hunting  for  the  coins  on  the  floor. 
Finding  them  he  waited  a  moment,  pretending  to  be  still 
engrossed  in  the  search,  and  then,  with  an  assumed  cheer- 
fulness, he  called  out : 

"  I've  got  'em." 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said,  "that's  all  over.  I  don't 
know  why  I  do  those  things.  Here,  you  must  only  give 
me  the  sovereign  now.  No,  don't  turn  up  the  other 

ht." 

"  I  wasn't  going  to,"  he  said,  handing  her  the  sovereign. 


STILL  LIFE  73 

"  Now  don't  be  reproachful.  I  caught  it  in  your  voice 
that  time.  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  be  going  to, 
that's  all.  But  do  you  think  I  didn't  notice  that  you 
struck  a  match  instead  at  first.  .  .  .  You're  good,  much 
better  than  me.  Still,  I'm  all  right  now,  quite  better  and 
perfectly  sensible.  You'll  be  late  too.  I  am  very  sorry. 
But  don't  be  worried  waiting."  She  stood  up  again  and 
caught  his  hand  and  kissed  it.  "  All  serene.  Turn  up  the 
light,  anything  you  like."  He  had  caught  hold  of  her, 
clasping  her  head  to  his  shoulder.  "  You  understand  it's 
all  over  now,  don't  you  ?  " 

He  kissed  her  and  was  silent  for  a  little. 

"  Won't  you  want  the  light  ?  I'll  get  another,  it  won't 
take  a  minute.  I  shan't  be  late." 

"  I  don't  want  it,  truly.  I'd  rather  not  have  it.  I  like 
the  fire-light,  it's  good  to  think  by.  Poor  old  Peggotty." 
She  released  herself  from  his  arms  and  picked  up  the  book 
from  under  the  chair.  "  I  don't  believe  it  will  hang  to- 
gether much  longer.  Twenty-seven  years.  It's  a  shame 
to  bring  it  into  such  a  savage  household.  I  wonder  I 
didn't  throw  that  on  the  fire,  too.  Now,  Jim,  you  must 
go.  You'll  only  make  me  angry  with  myself,  and  then  I 
shall  do  something  absolutely  terrible.  Don't  provoke  it. 
What  time  will  you  be  back  ?  If  you're  really  going  to  be 
back  between  one  and  two,  I'll  be  waiting  for  you,  probably. 
I  don't  know,  though.  I  think  I'm  thoroughly  tired.  We'll 
see." 

;'  You're  really  better,  honest  Injun  ?  " 

"  Yes,  really,  Jim.  You  must  go  now.  Have  you  got 
enough  money  for  a  cab  ?  " 

;<  Yes.    But  I  feel  I  ought  not  to  leave  you  like  this." 

"  Like  what  ?  I've  told  you  I'm  quite  right.  Don't 
you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  you  say  so.  But  you  are  inclined  to  say  you're 
fit  when  you're  not,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Never.  I'd  never  dream  of  making  out  I  was  better 
than  I  was  in  fact.  Quite  the  other  way.  You'll  be  so  late, 


74  STILL  LIFE 

though."  She  stepped  towards  him  and  gave  him  a  kiss, 
pushing  him  gently  towards  the  door.  "  Now  don't  be 
contrary.  It's  so  exhausting." 

"  I  won't.  Good-bye  :  but  do  look  after  yourself.  Is 
there  anything  I  can  bring  in  for  you  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks.  Good-bye.  Work  hard.  You've  got  to 
keep  me,  after  all."  She  heard  him  go  more  slowly  than 
his  wont  down  the  stairs,  and  then  dulled  voices  reached 
her,  conversing  for  a  moment  near  the  door.  It  was 
strange,  she  thought,  that  he  should  be  really  concerned 
about  her.  The  door  closed,  without  slamming.  At  the 
sound  a  great  weariness  came  over  her.  The  springs  that 
had  been  taut  and  vibrant  within  her,  suddenly  slackened 
altogether,  and  to  prevent  herself  from  falling  she  reached 
out  towards  the  bed-rail.  Her  face,  she  knew,  was  smiling, 
beyond  her  control.  She  guided  herself  round  by  the  edge, 
and  slowly  climbed  upon  it,  composing  herself  for  sleep.  .  .  . 

A  roaring,  not  terrible,  as  of  falling  water  in  the  sunlight, 
slowly  died  down  about  her  ears,  sinking  at  last  into  the 
low,  clear  tone  of  a  distant  pipe.  Far  away  through  the 
dense  blackness  was  a  little  movement,  unseen  yet  certain, 
and  from  its  eddying  emerged  a  point  of  silver  light.  For 
a  moment  it  pulsed  with  shadows,  modulating  its  brilliance 
to  the  voice  of  the  pipe.  As  the  note  of  the  pipe  rose 
higher  and  more  clear,  the  light  shone  clearer,  and  as  it 
descended,  shadows  broke  from  the  centre  of  the  light  and 
spread  in  waves  outward  to  its  edge,  which  was  the  living 
darkness.  The  voice  and  the  light  were  one.  Together  as 
though  governed  by  some  long  determined  purpose,  they 
became  more  brilliant,  yet  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  light 
and  the  rising  and  falling  of  the  pipe  never  ceased  ;  and  as 
the  music  sounded  more  triumphant  and  the  circling  waves 
of  light  broke  further  into  the  darkness,  fixed  beams  of 
radiance  advanced  outward  from  the  central  point,  along 
which  came  yet  more  light  and  more  sound.  By  slow  and 
unchecked  progression  all  the  darkness  was  invaded  by 
these  veins  of  light  and  sound,  but  the  darkness  was  not 


STILL  LIFE  75 

driven  away  by  them,  but  rather  in  their  full  clearness  it 
could  be  seen  that  the  dark  was  not  dark,  but  only  the 
shade  within  the  very  flame  of  brilliant  light.  Now  the 
sound  of  the  pipe  filled  all  the  space  about,  having  reached 
the  pinnacle  of  music ;  yet  it  was  always  one  voice,  clear 
and  unfaltering,  swelling  with  life.  The  light  was  spread 
throughout  the  sphere,  for  its  last  circle  was  always  the 
furthest  bound  and  circumference  of  all  things.  Then 
the  whole  harmony  seemed  to  be  poised  in  its  perfect  com- 
pletion, and  the  swiftly  moving  circles  of  light  could  be 
seen  swiftly  returning  from  their  farthest  range  along  the 
fixed  rays,  diminishing  incessantly  yet  with  undiminished 
brilliance  until  they  reached  the  central  point,  from  which 
while  they  entered  they  emerged  again  and  sped  outward 
along  the  rays.  Each  circle  of  light  was  a  wave  of  sound. 
The  motion  of  the  whole  was  comprehensible,  as  though 
the  light  and  sound,  once  seen  and  heard,  were  known  by 
their  own  nature  to  move  thus  and  only  thus.  Something 
watched  and  understood  the  motion,  and  was  part  of  it, 
glad  and  sorrowful  at  once,  for  this  motion  and  this  know- 
ledge of  the  motion  were  beyond  all  gladness  and  sorrow. 
First  the  infinite  progression  of  the  circling  waves  from 
the  living  point  was  terrible  and  swift  in  its  vehemence, 
and  the  soul  was  awed ;  as  they  returned,  the  soul  was 
moved  with  pity  and  joy,  for  always  the  last  wave  broke 
over  the  soul  and  bore  it  away  in  the  harmony  of  light  and 
sound  of  which  it  was  a  part.  It  was  glad,  for  it  was  a  part 
of  the  great  brightness  and  the  unending  music ;  it  was 
full  of  pity  for  the  dear  and  familiar  things  from  which  it 
was  borne  away.  Yet  from  these  it  was  not  wholly  severed. 
It  was  with  them  even  while  it  moved  along  the  ray  with 
the  light,  and  the  knowledge  of  this  was  terrible.  The 
parting  could  not  be  endured  for  ever,  and  as  the  pain  of 
parting  became  intense,  the  unending  sweep  of  the  circles 
and  the  triumphant  note  of  the  pipe  was  a  menace,  from 
which  the  soul  could  not  escape.  The  waves  broke  over  it 
incessantly,  yet  it  did  not  die,  but  lived  in  the  sure  know- 


76  STILL  LIFE 

ledge  that  the  next  wave  would  bring  death.  Then  the 
soul  saw  that  the  movement  of  the  great  harmony  was 
motionless,  and  heard  that  the  voice  of  the  pipe  had  no 
sound.  Every  light  and  every  note  was  poised  and  still. 
To  its  vision  the  circles  moved  and  to  its  hearing  the  sound 
rose  and  fell,  but  the  soul  knew  that  all  was  fixed  eternally. 
It  sought  to  cry  out  against  the  horror,  but  its  voice  was  the 
sound  of  the  pipe. 

Slowly  an  atom  of  life  in  the  soul  stirred,  and  a  flickering 
point  of  consciousness  woke,  and  the  soul  knew  it  was  weep- 
ing. From  the  centre  of  pain  spread  veins  of  suffering,  and 
these  were  the  soul.  The  last  circle  of  light  no  longer  broke 
over  it,  but  the  motion  was  always  keen  and  understood. 
There  came  a  great  weariness  of  weeping,  and  in  the  weari- 
ness was  a  smile ;  and  the  soul  knew  that  this  was  the 
smile  of  human  death.  Knowing  this  the  soul  was  con- 
scious of  body,  and  strove  against  the  weariness  of  weeping 
and  the  smile  which  would  take  hold  of  the  lips  of  the  body 
and  the  body  be  dead.  While  it  fought  against  this  death 
the  light  and  the  motion  and  the  sound  were  smaller  and 
smaller,  yet  visible  and  perfect,  containing  in  themselves 
the  point  of  living  light  which  might  grow  again,  and  the 
old  terror  reawaken.  The  soul  was  weeping  again  and  the 
weariness  and  the  smile  which  was  in  it  were  forgotten  in 
the  agony  of  impotence.  Only  the  central  point  remained 
in  the  darkness,  and  the  pipe  was  a  remembered  voice. 
The  consciousness  of  body,  once  born,  remained.  The 
soul  and  the  body  were  weeping  together  in  darkness  for 
the  blind  terror  of  eternity. 

She  dared  not  raise  her  head.  It  was  bowed,  and  it  must 
remain  bowed  under  the  pressure  of  the  darkness  above 
her.  She  knew  that  she  was  weeping,  yet,  though  she 
listened  for  the  sound,  she  heard  none,  and  her  eyes  were 
not  wet.  Her  desire  for  a  sound  was  overwhelming.  She 
caught  at  the  pulse  of  her  own  heart  and  it  did  not  beat  at 
all.  She  knew  that  she  was  not  dead,  because  death  had 
threatened  her  and  she  had  withstood  it.  Her  soul  had 


STILL  LIFE  77 

joined  her  body  and  she  was  alive.  She  waited  in  suspense 
for  the  sound  of  movement,  endeavouring  with  all  her  will 
to  force  some  part  of  her  body  into  action.  Her  body  was 
motionless  with  fear.  She  knew  that  nothing  had  changed 
in  the  room,  and  that  everything  was  familiar  and  set  in 
its  familiar  place,  but  she  was  afraid  to  rise  and  see  it  with 
her  eyes. 

Slowly  and  deliberately  she  raised  herself  from  the  bed 
and  looked  about  her.  There  was  no  flame  in  the  fire 
which  now  glowed  red.  Other  than  this,  nothing  was 
changed.  And  yet  everything  had  changed.  It  had  be- 
come infinitely  old  and  changeless,  as  though  suddenly  a 
breath  had  passed  through  the  room  and  her  own  soul  and 
made  the  world  timeless  and  old  and  evil.  The  feeling  that 
rose  up  in  her  had  risen  from  too  deep  down  in  her  to  be 
made  definite  in  words,  for  words  belonged  to  another 
world  than  that  in  which  this  hidden  principle  reigned. 
Where  she  had  been  she  knew  that  life  and  motion  and 
change  were  illusion,  by  which  men's  eyes  are  blinded. 
The  revelation  was  not  wholly  new  to  her.  This  final  com- 
pleteness linked  in  her  mind  with  the  vague  dreams  of  her 
childhood,  when  she  had  awakened  cold  with  fear,  and  to 
her  mother  who  asked  her  what  it  was  that  frightened  her, 
had  replied  that  it  was  lines  and  things  going  backwards 
and  forwards  on  them.  And  later,  when  she  first  entered 
the  new  railway  underground,  and  waited  on  the  platform, 
the  vision  of  the  round  bright  train  swinging  towards  her 
out  of  the  darkness  had  struck  her  mind  with  the  same 
terror.  These  things  could  be  related  to  her  dream.  They 
were  fulfilled  and  completed  in  the  vision  from  which  she 
had  just  emerged. 

But  there  were  others  which  she  knew  belonged  to  the 
same  order,  for  they  woke  the  same  dread  in  her,  which 
she  could  not  understand.  Her  first  and  only  sight  of 
obscene  carrion  birds,  perched  hoary  and  foul  and  im- 
mobile, with  ruffled  and  decaying  feathers,  while  beneath 
them,  an  indefinite  distance  away,  lay  red  and  uncouth 


78  STILL  LIFE 

bones,  had  filled  her  not  with  disgust,  as  she  tried  to  re- 
assure herself,  but  with  terror.  "  They  were  perched  out 
of  all  time,"  she  said,  explaining  herself  to  Richmond,  a 
garrulous  and  silent  friend  of  Dennis's.  ;'  They  were 
eternally  old  "  ;  and  Richmond  knew  what  she  meant. 
"  I  call  it  the  metaphysical  horror,"  he  said.  "  I  had  to 
call  it  something.  But  then  I  get  it  more  often  than  you. 
I  could  tell  you — no  I  won't."  He  had  relapsed  into 
silence,  and  she  had  never  dared  to  ask  what  he  was  going 
to  say.  Twice  since  then  she  had  been  troubled,  and 
strangely,  because  on  both  occasions  she  had  been  brought 
suddenly  into  contact  with  things  Egyptian.  The  first 
time  was  when  she  had  seen  a  statue  of  the  Baboon  God 
in  the  Louvre,  and  between  his  knees  a  scribe  writing  his 
words.  The  scribe,  carved  as  though  he  were  still  drawing 
deep  silent  breaths  and  his  pen  were  moving  incessantly 
over  the  page  of  his  book,  was  not  frightened  by  the  terrible 
god.  The  second  time,  she  had  glanced  through  a  book 
which  Richmond  had  left  behind  him  at  their  house,  con- 
taining translations  from  Egyptian  hieroglyphs,  and  her 
eyes  had  fastened  on  a  phrase  :  "  The  Boat  of  Millions  of 
Years." 

But  to-night  and  now  she  understood  what  this  thing 
might  be.  A  greyness,  not  of  colour,  seemed  to  be  shed 
over  all  things  before  her  eyes.  If  only  there  were  someone 
near  her  to  comfort  her  by  understanding  what  she  had 
suffered  only  a  moment  ago  in  that  very  room,  what  she 
was  suffering  now. 

Her  mind  reached  instantly  out  to  Maurice.  She  moved 
slowly  to  her  writing  table  and  took  hold  of  a  pen.  She 
was  crying  bitterly  and  smiling  at  once  ;  and  she  laid 
down  the  pen,  recognising  and  acquiescing  in  the  depth 
of  her  sudden  delusion. 


CHAPTER   VI 

ANNE  CRADOCK  awoke  into  an  established  and  victorious 
sunlight,  which  glowed  from  mirror  to  mirror  in  her  bed- 
room. Rubbing  her  eyes,  she  knew  that  it  was  already 
late,  and  for  a  moment  she  was  annoyed  by  the  thought 
that  she  had  slept  into  the  afternoon.  She  soon  con- 
vinced herself  that  this  could  not  be,  and  then  she  was 
reluctant  to  arise  or  stir.  No  impulse  to  think  about 
things  vexed  her  where  she  lay.  Her  thoughts  seemed 
rather  to  detach  themselves  like  a  vapour  from  her  mind 
and  float  lazily  upwards  in  her  sight  until  they  finally 
dissolved  into  the  dust  of  the  sunbeams.  She  could  not 
hold  them  for  a  moment. 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  over  the  panels  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  One  of  her  beaded  slippers  twinkled  in 
the  rays  that  fell  upon  the  hearth.  When  she  recognised 
it  she  turned  to  peer  over  the  edge  of  the  bed.  A  powder 
of  gossamer  glass  shone  like  hoar-frost  on  the  floor.  The 
sight  did  not  please  her  and  she  sank  eagerly  back  into 
the  remote  contentment  of  her  pillow.  She  rang  the  bell 
which  dangled  to  her  fingers.  The  maid  appeared. 

"  Please  clear  up  my  floor  while  I'm  in  bed.  I  shan't 
get  up  till  it's  done.  I'll  go  to  sleep  again,  and  you  must 
wake  me  when  you've  finished." 

"  Yes,  m'm." 

"  Is  the  master  at  home  ?  .  .  .  Why  didn't  anybody 
wake  me  up  ?  ...  What's  the  time  now  ?  " 

"  Just  after  twelve,  m'm.  The  master  went  out  early. 
He  told  me  that  you  weren't  to  be  waked.  He  said  he 
might  be  in  to  tea." 

"  Very  well.  I'll  get  up  as  soon  as  you've 

79 


80  STILL  LIFE 

finished.  There's  some  glass  here."  She  closed  her  eyes 
again. 

She  had  dressed  and  begun  to  eat  a  belated  breakfast 
before  her  mind  would  work  consecutively.  During  the 
short  minutes  which  she  gave  to  that  meal  her  sleepy 
contentment  expanded  into  an  acute  sense  of  well-being. 
The  dull  memory  of  a  night  of  terror  vanished  quickly 
before  the  influence  of  her  decision  to  see  Maurice.  It  was 
very  fortunate  that  they  had  arranged  to  meet  that  after- 
noon. Such  things  were  best  done  quickly.  The  prospect 
of  a  day  of  certain  sanity  even  excited  her. 

She  took  up  a  book  of  dramatic  criticism  from  the  table 
and  settled  herself  to  read.  Although  she  fixed  her  eyes 
intently  upon  it,  she  comprehended  nothing,  and  arrested 
herself  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  with  vehemence,  as 
though  she  were  guilty  of  a  slightly  disreputable  deception. 

"  I'm  going  out,"  she  said,  and  returned  to  her  room. 
She  dressed  exactly  as  she  had  done  the  day  before. 

The  maid  knocked  at  the  door.  Mr.  Beauchamp  had 
called  in  to  get  a  book  which  he  had  left  behind,  but  he 
did  not  want  to  disturb  Mrs.  Cradock.  He  was  downstairs 
in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Tell  him  to  wait  a  moment,  Richardson.  I'll  be  down 
in  a  few  seconds." 

Anne  welcomed  the  prospect  of  a  few  minutes'  speech 
with  Dennis,  if  the  conversation  should  serve  only  to 
steady  her.  Already  she  had  begun  to  feel  the  strain  of 
her  impatience.  Dennis  was  just  the  person  to  distract  her 
from  the  anxiety  with  which  her  mind  and  her  body  con- 
spired to  vex  her.  She  ran  down  the  stairs. 

u  How  are  you,  Dennis  ?  " 

"  Splendid,  thanks,  Mrs.  Cradock.  I've  only  come  for  a 
book  that  Cradock  lent  me.  I  forgot  to  take  it  away  with 
me.  ...  I  meant  to  come  yesterday,  but  I  couldn't  get 
away  from  the  hospital  in  time." 

"  Was  it  a  book  in  a  green  cover — dramatic  criticism  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  it.    I  forget  who  it's  by." 


STILL  LIFE  81 

"  I've  got  it.  I  tried  to  read  it  this  morning,  but  after 
I  had  finished  the  first  page,  I  hadn't  the  least  idea  what 
I'd  been  reading  about.  I'll  get  it  before  you  go.  Sit  down 
a  moment.  You're  not  going  immediately  ?  " 

"  I'll  smoke  if  I  may.  It's  my  lunch  interval,  you 
know." 

She  felt  nervous  and  cold ;  her  hands  were  trembling 
and  she  thought  that  Dennis  would  observe  a  strangeness 
in  her.  She  made  haste  to  speak. 

"  That  was  a  curious  dinner-party.  The  air  was  so 
thundery,  from  the  very  beginning.  After  that  it  was  all 
clouds  and  flashes.  I  enjoyed  it  very  much,  but  I'm 
certain  Mrs.  Fortescue  has  made  a  vow  never  to  accept 
an  invitation  of  mine  again.  ...  I  had  no  idea  a  dinner- 
party could  be  such  a  dramatic  affair." 

"  Nor  I,  really.  But  I  had  a  feeling  that  something 
would  happen  as  soon  as  I  got  into  the  room.  I've  &  flair 
for  these  things.  I'm  so  desperately  self-conscious  for 
other  people  .  .  .  it's  the  result  of  my  awful  education,  I 
suppose."  There  was  a  silence. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Cradock  at  length. 
"  I  get  terribly  ashamed  for  people  who  seem  to  be  making 
themselves  ridiculous.  ...  It  sounds  like  a  good  thing, 
but  I  feel  it's  bad.  I  wonder  why  ?  "  She  paused  to 
ponder.  "  Probably  it's  because  you  can't  be  ashamed 
for  other  people  without  despising  them.  .  .  .  That's 
quite  different  to  being  sensitive  for  them.  It's  the  disease 
of  the  social  standard.  You  can't  accept  people  for  them- 
selves, can't  listen  unless  they  speak  with  the  accent.  .  .  . 
No,  we  can't  listen  at  all." 

"  That's  true.  When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  it's  a 
pretty  rotten  state  to  be  in — never  more  than  half-way  to 
being  a  listener.  .  .  .  Perhaps  there  aren't  any  more  real 
listeners  left  in  the  world.  ...  Or  are  they  the  kind  of 
people  Morry  was  talking  about  that  night  ?  .  .  .  (Morry 
is  short  for  Maurice  Temple.  I've  always  called  him 
that.) " 


82  STILL  LIFE 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  Have  you  ever  read  Plato  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What  I 
remember  about  him  is  not  the  speakers  or  what  they  say, 
but  the  calm  of  listening.  Most  of  the  words  are  beyond 
me — but  the  listeners  are  wonderful.  Very  often  they 
didn't  say  more  than  '  yes '  or  '  no  '  for  hours,  but  you 
can't  forget  them.  .  .  .  You  can  hardly  imagine  a  state 
of  mind  like  that  nowadays.  ..." 

"  Perhaps  that's  what  we're  after,"  said  Mrs.  Cradock. 
"To  be  able  to  listen.  ...  I  could  understand  that, 
anyhow." 

"  Better  than  I  should,  I'm  sure.  I  rather  think  you've 
got  something  of  it  yourself,  although  it's  against  my 
principles  to  grant  a  woman  anything  of  the  kind.  .  .  . 
But  if  it  were  to  happen  that  I  got  into  that  state — well, 
I  don't  think  I'd  be  quite  at  home  in  it  somehow." 

They  sat  silent  for  some  time,  while  the  dull  roar  of  the 
traffic  broke  faintly  into  the  room,  rising  slowly  and  as 
slowly  falling,  until  its  last  whisper  remained  constant  in 
their  ears. 

Anne's  voice  was  calm  and  firm.  Dennis  was  grateful 
for  its  fitness. 

"  I  think  that  this  is  a  very  real  belief  for  some  people. 
Your  Mr.  Temple,  for  instance,  believes  in  it,  doesn't  he  ? 
...  I  don't  think  that  Jim  does, — do  you  ?  " 

Immediately  Dennis  felt  that  he  was  passing  sentence. 
He  felt  not  that  she  was  depending  upon  his  answer,  but 
that  never  before  had  he  judged  a  man  by  a  standard  so 
sure.  Therefore  he  hesitated.  Almost  he  seemed  to  wait 
for  a  voice  not  his  own  to  move  his  lips.  Then,  recollect- 
ing himself,  he  shirked  the  issue. 

"  I  couldn't  say.  .  .  ." 

Against  his  own  will  he  was  compelled  to  deny  his  own 
words. 

"  No.  ...  I  don't  believe  he  would  have  any  idea  of 
what  it  means." 
Now  he  had  given  more  than  he  had  been  asked ;   yet 


STILL  LIFE  83 

he  knew  that  he  could  not  have  avoided  it.  Had  he  made 
another  answer,  she  would  have  despised  him  for  the  lie. 
A  great  responsibility  had  been  put  upon  him ;  and  he 
was  glad  now  that  he  had  been  made  to  bear  it. 

Strangely  he  knew  that  the  question  she  had  asked  had 
been  the  end  of  a  struggle.  It  was  the  outward  sign  of  a 
great  change  in  her.  He  admired  and  wondered  at  her 
calm. 

But  the  impulse  to  refuse  the  burden  was  still  strong. 
If  he  could  not  deny  his  words,  he  could  whittle  them  away. 

"  I  don't  think  many  people  would  have  any  idea  of 
what  it  means,  you  know,"  he  said.  "  I  know  a  good 
many — good  men — who  might  have  listened  to  this  con- 
versation and  not  have  understood  a  word." 

"  I  am  sure  that's  true.  Besides,  we  haven't  spoken 
clearly  even  to  ourselves.  But  I  believe  that  the  listeners  " 
— she  smiled  a  little  at  the  word — "  would  have  understood. 
Those  that  wouldn't — well,  there's  something  wrong  with 
them." 

"  But  it  is  so  very  particular,"  he  urged,  "  it's  like  a 
secret  code." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  " 

"  No,  not  really." 

;'  You're  a  Cappadocian.  It  is  a  Cappadocian  ? — one 
of  those  who  blow  hot  and  cold  in  the  same  breath.  You're 
caught  red-handed  this  time.  .  .  .  But  you're  inclined  to 
the  good  side,  to-day,  more  than  usual.  Why  is  that,  I 
wonder  ?  " 

"  It's  your  own  fault.  You've  got  a  way  of  forcing  me 
up  to  things.  That's  why  I  generally  avoid  talking  to  you. 
You're  too  exacting  altogether." 

"  I'm  sorry." 

"  No,  that's  my  fault.  I  hate  playing  above  my  hand. 
It  lets  me  down  with  a  crash  afterwards.  .  .  .  Can  I  say 
what  I  like  ?  " 

"  Anything  you  like.  It's  the  afternoon  for  anything. 
...  It  doesn't  happen  often," 


84  STILL  LIFE 

"Well,  do  you  know?  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  think  I  will.  .  .  . 
On  the  point  of  a  confession.  Just  stopped  in  time." 

She  did  not  ask  him  what  he  meant,  but  she  was  both 
glad  and  disappointed  that  he  had  not  spoken. 

"  I  hope  I'm  not  responsible  for  all  this,"  she  said. 
"  You  mustn't  let  me  worry  you.  I  don't  mean  to." 

:<  You  don't." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  I  like  talking  to  you  very  much. 
You  understand  so  much  more  than  you  ever  will  allow  to 
yourself.  .  .  .  But  I  should  hate  to  think  that  I  tormented 
you." 

"  No.  Give  me  credit  for  something.  I  do  that  part  of 
it  at  least  myself." 

Mrs.  Cradock  thought,  and  said  : 

"  I  think  it  comes  to  this — that  you  use  me  to  put 
questions  to  yourself.  I'm  not  complaining.  I  only  want 
you  to  admit  that  I'm  not  an  accomplice,  not  deliberately, 
anyhow." 

"I  admit  it.  In  any  case  I  exaggerate.  Then  it  is 
different,  .  .  .  talking  to  you  I  am  always  playing  below 
my  hand,  ...  for  safety.  You  pull  me  up,  very  nearly 
make  me  plunge.  It's  rather  a  shock,  that's  all." 

"  The  way  I  pull  you  up,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  No.  It's  just  being  pulled  up.  There's  only  one  way 
to  do  it,  I  believe.  .  .  .  Only  it  makes  me  angry  with 
myself  afterwards.  I  shall  be  furious  when  I  get  outside. 
.  .  .  God  pity  my  patients  this  afternoon  !  " 

Anne  laughed  outright. 

"  It's  not  really  funny,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  but  it  is.  You're  just  going  to  have  an  orgy  of 
self-pity,  and  you  expect  me  to  help.  I'll  not  do  it.  Be- 
sides, it's  unreasonable  to  expect  it.  It  always  ends  in 
the  same  way.  Up  till  now  I've  managed  to  hold  out. 
But  do  you  set  a  trap  on  purpose,  or  is  it  just  natural  with 
you  ?  " 

"  Something  of  both,  probably,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  But 
I  must  go  now.  I  don't  want  to  a  bit.  ...  All  the  same 


STILL  LIFE  85 

it's  good  to  be  put  through  my  paces.  You  mustn't  take 
me  too  seriously.  .  .  .  You  wouldn't,  anyhow.  That's 
where  you  always  have  the  advantage.  You  deprive  me 
of  my  rights.  I  don't  have  the  chance  of  demolishing 
myself  for  you.  You've  always  done  that  yourself.  .  .  . 
That's  where  you're  so  disconcerting." 

"  But  other  people  do  that  too,  surely  ?  " 

"  Plenty.    It  depends  how  it's  done,  though." 

"  How  do  I  do  it  then,  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  That's  your  secret.  But  if  you  mean 
how  it  appears  to  me — well,  even  then  it's  difficult. 
Perhaps  you  don't  quite  demolish  everything.  There's 
something  left.  I'd  like  to  know  what  it  was.  It  might 
be  some  use  to  me,  really  some  use." 

"  You  make  me  too  Machiavellian,  really." 

"  No,  not  quite  that.  I  don't  insinuate  that  you  know 
more  about  me  than  I  do  myself.  I  know  a  great  deal  too 
much.  Besides  it  would  be  a  burden  for  you.  .  .  .  You 
know  just  enough." 

"  I  must  be  very  wonderful." 

"  No,  but  I'm  occasionally  honest :  nothing  more.  All 
I've  been  saying  only  means  that  you  don't  fit  into  my 
formulas.  Most  people  do."  He  paused  a  moment, 
reflecting.  "  No,  I  must  say  you  don't  fit.  At  least,  not 
to-day." 

"  Now  you're  being  obscure.  Have  I  done  anything 
particular  to-day  to  make  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  must  have.  I  don't  know  exactly 
when  it  happened,"  he  said  disingenuously. 

"  That's  a  pity.  I  would  like  to  know  what  it  was. 
Perhaps  you  know  just  enough  about  me  too." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  stood  up  to  take  his  leave. 
"  If  I  thought  I  did,"  he  said,  *'  I  should  give  up  my 
job  on  the  spot  and  take  to — well,  let's  say  writing 
novels." 

Only  Dennis's  movement  from  his  chair  convinced  her 
that  he  was  going.  She  was  now  quite  calm,  able  to  judge 


86  STILL  LIFE 

serenely.  Although  she  had  been  so  occupied  that  she  had 
not  turned  her  mind  to  that  which  most  nearly  concerned 
her,  she  felt  that  she  had  been  enabled  to  consider  it 
calmly  when  she  would,  and  she  was  grateful  to  Dennis 
for  having  recalled  her  to  herself.  She  half  regretted  that 
he  was  going,  for  she  thought  that  she  could  have  long 
continued  this  slow  interchange  of  words.  That  they  so 
feebly  corresponded  to  the  feelings  which  were  their  occa- 
sion excited  her  as  a  dangerous  game.  Dennis  had  under- 
stood something  of  what  had  been  passing  with  her,  she 
knew,  but  she  did  not  resent  his  knowledge.  He  had  a 
right  to  all  that  he  could  discover. 

"  We're  very  solemn  to-day,"  she  said.  "  Don't  you 
feel  that  ?  .  .  .  But  honestly  I  have  enjoyed  it." 

He  nodded  thoughtfully,  and  with  a  half-smile  said  : 

"I've  had  the  same  feeling.  .  .  .  It's  silly  to  go  away 
now.  I  must,  though.  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye.    Don't  forget  your  book." 

He  paused  at  the  door.  "  I've  forgotten  it  already." 
He  returned  to  pick  up  the  book  from  the  chair  in  which 
he  had  left  it.  She  listened  to  him  quietly  moving  from 
the  quiet  house. 

She  began  to  think  about  herself  and  Maurice,  knowing 
that  whatever  she  should  now  resolve  to  do  would  be 
right.  A  glance  at  the  clock  told  her  that  within  an  hour 
she  would  be  leaving  the  house,  but  she  felt  neither  im- 
patience nor  agitation.  It  was  strange,  she  mused  instead, 
how  completely  Jim  had  passed  away.  In  her  mind  ran 
the  old  phrase  which  she  remembered  by  its  distinction  of 
capitals  in  her  school  Bible,  "  MENE,  MENE,"  and  she 
was  comforted  by  its  palpable  finality. 

Jim  had  been  rejected  once  and  for  all  deliberately,  by 
that  which  lay  deeper  in  herself  than  her  surface  debates. 
While  she  sat  quiet  in  the  room  that  Dennis  had  left  so 
calm,  she  felt  glad  at  the  clearness  of  her  own  vision. 
Also  she  rejoiced  at  the  positive  victory  won,  having 
completely  put  away  her  husband  into  a  past  which  had 


STILL  LIFE  87 

been  before  only  in  moments  discarded.  The  same  clear 
light  gave  to  the  events  of  the  day  before  a  new  and  just 
perspective.  Little  isolated  pictures  passed  before  her 
eyes — of  herself  regarding  the  painter  high  on  the  house 
wall,  her  solitary  seat  in  the  Park,  the  eager  Mr.  Mortimer 
at  the  restaurant,  and  finally  an  almost  stereoscopic  image 
of  the  room  in  the  Museum,  and  Maurice's  nervous  crouch- 
ing figure  at  tea.  Though  she  knew  that  the  woman  was 
herself,  she  could  hardly  recognise  her  in  those  particular 
surroundings.  She  seemed  to  have  been  so  small ;  small 
before  the  house,  insignificant  in  the  Park,  shrinking  in 
the  restaurant.  Only  the  entrance  of  Maurice  lent  to  her 
a  comparative  bigness,  which  was  again  diminutive  against 
herself  of  to-day.  A  sense  of  expanding  strength  filled  her 
now,  and  she  knew  that  the  acts  of  yesterday  had  been 
but  partially  her  own.  Within  an  hour  that  would  have 
all  been  set  right.  Her  course  was  perfectly  defined,  and 
she  was  confident  in  her  success.  Maurice  would  under- 
stand her,  or  rather  would  understand  what  she  would 
show  him  of  the  reality.  Nor  would  he  suffer  very  much. 

She  could  have  remained  there,  sitting  still  in  her  chair, 
listening  to  the  sound  of  her  own  breathing  for  hours,  so 
calm  was  her  mind,  yet  precisely  at  four  o'clock  she  pre- 
pared to  leave  the  house.  She  would  have  time  to  walk 
slowly  along  the  Embankment  and  across  the  bridge. 

When  she  reached  the  middle  of  the  bridge  she  stopped 
and  looked  over  on  to  the  river.  She  was  thinking  of 
nothing,  yet  her  mind  was  not  vacant,  but  resting  con- 
tented in  its  own  poise,  as  a  climber  high  on  a  hill  will  find 
a  deep  delight,  looking  out  upon  the  country  spread 
beneath  him,  though  he  regards  and  remembers  nothing 
with  his  eyes.  A  wind  so  faint  as  scarcely  to  be  caught 
upon  a  seaman's  wetted  finger  played  softly  about  her  face. 
Gradually  a  dark  mass  glided  from  under  the  bridge  into 
her  sight,  and  she  watched  the  slow  lift  and  strain  of  the 
sweep  with  which  the  lighterman  eased  his  barge  into 
mid-stream.  A  little  swirling  and  a  few  struggling  splashes 


88  STILL  LIFE 

near  the  bank  drew  her  gaze  to  where  some  small  and 
living  thing  fought  against  the  water.  Before  she  could 
tell  whether  it  was  bird  or  animal  the  struggle  had  ceased. 
Close  by  a  boatman  lowered  himself  by  a  ladder  from  the 
wharf  into  a  skiff,  and  he  pulled  hard  at  the  stern  oar ; 
yet  the  boat  seemed  not  to  move  at  all,  until  she  saw  him 
climb  on  to  a  laden  barge  with  the  painter  in  his  hand  and 
make  fast  and  she  knew  that  there  had  been  some  change. 
Behind  the  four  straight  chimneys  at  the  river  edge  the 
grey  haze  of  the  sky  touched  the  water,  and  the  eye  could 
travel,  undisturbed  by  the  black  barrier  of  the  opposing 
bridge,  from  the  water  to  the  air  and  back  again  in  still 
security.  Into  her  ears  rang  the  clear  echoes  of  the  steps 
of  men  crossing  the  bridge,  and  they  seemed  to  sound  in 
unison  with  the  quiet  colour  of  the  river  and  the  sky  ;  and 
then,  while  she  listened,  the  echoes  sank  into  the  lapping 
of  the  water  on  the  bridge  piers  and  against  the  black  and 
empty  barges  moored  to  their  solitary  posts.  One  vibrant 
stroke  of  a  bell  quivered  for  a  moment  in  the  liquid  air, 
undertone  against  undertone,  and  fell  after  an  instant's 
domination  into  the  indistinguishable  silence. 

The  last  tones  of  the  bell  were  still  faintly  distinct  to 
her  ear  when  the  meaning  of  the  one  stroke  came  to  her. 
She  began  to  hasten  over  the  bridge,  instinctively  moving 
down  from  the  pavement  to  the  carriage-way  to  dull  the 
tinkling  of  her  hurried  footsteps.  Her  mind,  even  her 
body,  was  wrapped  about  by  the  memory  of  the  stillness, 
of  which  her  movements  bore  the  impress,  although  she 
was  hastening.  Even  the  sharp  rattle  of  the  door-bell 
was  subdued  into  it. 

"  Mr.  Temple's  expecting  you,  m'm.  Will  you  go  up- 
stairs ?  It's  the  top  floor.  Or  shall  I  show  you  the  way  ? 
.  .  .  He's  just  run  out  this  minute  to  fetch  some  things." 

Anne  smiled  gently  at  the  woman,  and  moved  towards 
the  stairs.  Then  she  remembered  to  say  that  she  could 
find  the  top  floor  easily  by  herself. 

Though  the  door  was  half-open,  she  tapped  gently  upon 


STILL  LIFE  89 

it  before  she  entered  and  sat  down  in  the  large  chair.  The 
window  was  open  wide.  Through  it  came  the  louder 
counterpart  of  the  sound  that  echoed  without  pause 
through  her,  and  she  closed  her  eyes,  in  a  dreamy  amuse- 
ment distinguishing  the  throb  of  a  motor-omnibus  in  the 
street  below,  and  the  low  hum  of  the  tramcars  stealing 
along  the  far  embankment.  All  the  sounds  were  one,  and 
one  with  that  which  had  slowly  invaded  her  while  she 
rested  on  the  bridge  watching  the  river.  Now  that  her 
eyes  were  closed,  for  moments  there  seemed  to  be  no 
bound  at  all  between  the  intimacy  of  herself  and  the  sound 
that  encompassed  her.  Only  the  physical  sense  of  strain 
and  the  puckering  of  her  lips  in  a  smile  recalled  her  to  the 
knowledge  that  she  was  Anne  Cradock  listening  to  a  multi- 
tude of  voices  from  a  world  beyond.  The  word  "  beyond  " 
shaped  itself  actually  on  her  lips,  and  she  opened  her  eyes, 
surprised  that  she  had  not  said  "  outside "  and  half- 
reproaching  herself  for  her  romanticism. 

The  general  neatness  of  the  room  dominated  each  single 
object.  Evidently  Maurice  had  been  ordering  everything 
against  her  coming.  Nothing  was  out  of  place.  She 
looked  round  the  room,  turning  slowly  on  her  heel. 
"  Nothing  at  all,"  she  said.  She  paused.  "  Except,"  she 
said.  There  was  a  book  upon  his  table,  marked  in  many 
places  by  slips  of  paper,  a  large  black  book  with  the 
dignified  and  pretentious  binding  of  a  school-prize.  She 
well  remembered  the  kind  from  her  own  school  days,  even 
if  the  well-garnished  rows  of  Cradock's  bookshelves  had 
not  served  as  a  continual  reminder.  Wondering  whether 
its  position  was  due  to  an  innocent  deception,  she  bent 
over  the  table  and  laid  a  hand  upon  the  cover  to  see  what 
the  book  was.  A  square  of  white  distracted  her  eye.  In- 
stinctively her  regard  fastened  upon  it — a  square  of  white 
paper,  with  writing. 

The  sudden  convulsion  of  her  mind  was  terrible.  She 
had  reached  for  it  and  now  she  held  it  in  her  hand,  not 
daring  to  read  it,  sick  and  motionless  with  apprehension. 


90  STILL  LIFE 

But,  though  in  a  moment  the  calm  of  her  mind  had  been 
changed  to  an  unbearable  tension,  her  body  still  moved 
with  the  deliberation  that  had  become  her  habit  during 
the  last  few  hours,  and  she  read  it  with  her  physical  being, 
her  eyes  following  the  contours  of  the  letters  slowly  like 
the  fingers  of  a  blind  man,  with  the  blind  man's  inevitable 
comprehension. 

"  I've  gone  "  it  said — there  was  no  preamble — "  only  a 
minute  before  you  were  to  come.  I  saw  everything  in  a 
moment.  It  would  have  been  too  awful  when  you  went 
away  again.  I've  had  a  morning  of  it,  and  I  couldn't  face 
a  night.  I  know  I'm  a  coward — but  I  couldn't.  Maurice 
Temple." 

She  stood  perfectly  still  with  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
bereft  of  all  purpose.  Two  atoms  had  come  together  for  a 
second  of  time,  then  parted,  lost  in  the  countless  millions 
of  their  kind.  To  her  then  appeared  no  shadow  of  hope 
that  she  should  find  him,  nor  the  faintest  tracing  of  a  line 
by  which  she  might  direct  her  action.  In  the  cold  clarity 
of  this  desolation,  her  thought  ticked  and  swung  like  a 
pendulum,  deliberately,  incessantly,  until  she  was  dizzy 
with  the  emptiness  in  which  it  moved. 

She  closed  the  door  carefully  and  descended  the  stairs. 
Apprehensive  that  the  woman  would  hear  her  fumbling 
with  the  latch  and  interrupt  her,  she  tried  the  handles 
noiselessly  and  emerged  into  the  street,  looking  once  to 
the  right  hand  before  she  turned  to  the  left  and  hurried  on 
her  way.  At  the  bridge  corner  she  stopped  irresolutely 
upon  the  little  island  of  pavement  set  in  the  road,  restrained 
by  the  sudden  knowledge  that  she  dared  not  cross  the 
bridge.  To  cross  it  would  be  to  put  an  impassable  gulf 
between  her  and  Maurice  for  ever,  she  felt,  and  she  would 
not  stir  a  footstep  over  the  river.  Yet  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do.  She  glanced  back  at  the  house  where  he  lived, 
and  seeing  the  flash  of  the  brass  knocker,  determined  that 
she  could  not  move  out  of  sight  of  that  landmark.  From 
the  blank  mists  which  wrapped  her  mind  about  and  spun 


STILL  LIFE  91 

before  her  eyes,  there  had  emerged  nothing  to  hold  her 
there,  yet  she  stayed,  knowing  well  that  Maurice  had 
gone,  because  she  could  not  have  borne  to  leave  his  neigh- 
bourhood. A  policeman  was  watching  her  from  the 
pavement  opposite.  He  began  to  move  towards  her.  She 
was  in  agony  lest  he  should  ask  her  if  she  had  lost  any- 
thing. Instead  he  begged  her  pardon  and  wondered  if  she 
was  waiting  for  an  omnibus,  because  they  only  passed 
over  the  next  bridge.  He  pointed  to  where  a  small,  bright 
car  crawled  over  the  bridge  in  the  distance  like  a  lady- 
bird. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  said.  She  felt  she  could  ask  him 
a  question.  "  I'm  waiting  for  somebody.  Have  you  seen 
a  young  gentleman  pass  along  here  about  ten  minutes 
ago  ?  I  have  missed  him." 

"  What  kind  of  a  young  gentleman  ?  "  he  asked. 

At  this  she  was  eager,  persuaded  that  he  had  something 
to  tell  her.  "  A  young  gentleman,"  she  said  again,  "  with 
black  hair.  He  came  out  of  that  house,  over  there,"  she 
pointed  back  to  the  knocker,  and  he  turned  to  look  at  it, 
then  swung  back  to  face  her,  while  she  was  still  turned  to 
the  house. 

"  I  believe  I  did,"  he  said  after  a  long  time.  "  He  was 
running,  I  think.  Wait  a  minute."  For  a  moment  Anne 
thought  the  policeman  must  be  a  ridiculous  toy,  but 
though  he  was  remote  she  watched  him  intently. 

"  Mightn't  this  be  the  young  man  ?  "  he  said  at  last, 
pointing  along  the  street  behind  her.  She  spun  round 
almost  into  Maurice's  face.  He  looked  like  a  runner  who 
had  finished  his  race  and  had  been  beaten. 

"  I've  been  waiting  for  you,"  she  said.  "  It's  all  right." 
She  turned  to  the  policeman.  "  Thank  you,  officer." 
Then  she  led  the  way  along  the  street  away  from  Maurice's 
house. 

He  kept  pace  with  her,  content  only  to  be  led.  He  was 
trying  to  smile,  but  his  pale  face  and  the  strain  of  his  lips 
belied  him.  At  times  he  broke  into  a  queer  hard  laugh, 


92  STILL  LIFE 

for  all  the  world  like  a  cough,  but  he  did  not  speak.  He 
coughed  or  laughed  again.  "  Don't,"  she  said.  "  You 
mustn't.  Try  to  stop,"  and  then  she  stopped  and  leaned 
over  the  stone  balustrade  of  the  embankment,  he  at  her 
side.  She  looked  at  him  and  his  head  instinctively  gave 
back  as  though  to  avoid  a  blow.  She  stared  at  her  own 
hands,  and  said,  "We're  both  safe  here.  Please  don't." 
Though  she  understood  the  beaten  look  on  his  face,  it 
frightened  her,  and  she  was  anxious  that  he  should  speak. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,"  he  said.  "  I  had  to  come  back." 
The  moment  he  had  said  a  word  he  was  eager  to  be  under- 
stood. "  I  meant  to  go.  I  felt  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I 
thought  you  would  understand  ;  but  I  had  to  come  back. 
You're  not  angry  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  said. 

"  I've  done  something  terrible.  I  know  I  have.  But  if 
you  knew  what  it  was  like,  if  you  knew  what  it  was  like 
when  I  had  to  come  back,  and  I  never  knew  where  you 
were,  or  what  might  have  happened.  Oh,  God  !  " 

"  I  know,"  she  said. 

"  I  couldn't  see  anything.  I  don't  know  what  I  was 
going  to  do.  Just  run  and  run.  It's  all  funny,  just  like  a 
dream." 

"  Yes." 

"  But  I'm  happy  now, — I  think  I  am.  But  I  don't 
know  about  you.  I've  done  something  terrible  to  you." 

"  No— nothing." 

"  Please  let  us  go  back.  I'm  all  right  now.  We  shan't 
get  any  better  here." 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  better,"  she  said.  And  they  went 
together  back  to  the  house.  He  fumbled  mechanically  in 
his  pockets  for  the  key  and  then  rang.  He  led  the  way 
past  the  landlady  in  silence.  Anne  said,  "  Thank  you," 
and  followed  him.  She  sat  down  in  the  chair  which  she 
had  left  but  a  few  minutes  ago,  while  he  walked  nervously 
to  and  fro,  from  the  window  to  the  door. 

"  No,  I  don't  see  how  you  could  forgive  this,"  he  said 


STILL  LIFE  93 

at  length.  "  I  have  no  right  to  come  back.  Only  I  had 
to.  And  I'm  happy  even  now  with  you  here,  though 
you're  miles  and  miles  away  from  me.  I  don't  see  how  I 
could  get  close  to  you  now."  He  stood  still.  "  Do  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  ask  too  much  ?  I  can't  quite  forget  it  in  a 
moment.  That's  all  the  trouble,  truly."  Her  eyes  were 
glistening. 

"  No,  I  suppose  you  can't.  .  .  .  It's  all  unreal  to  me, 
but  it's  not  to  you."  He  dropped  on  to  the  floor  in  front 

of  her  chair.  "  Oh,  Anne — darling "  he  said,  and  then 

hid  his  face  in  her  lap  and  cried.  She  bent  forward  quickly 
and  kissed  him,  stroking  his  hair.  "  It's  all  over  now, 
really,"  she  said,  as  he  lifted  his  head  to  meet  her  kisses 
and  looked  her  in  the  face.  "  Oh,  darling,"  he  said,  and 
bent  his  head  and  kissed  her  hands. 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  took  off  her  hat,  regarding 
herself  in  the  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece.  "  That's 
better,"  she  said,  and  moved  into  his  bedroom.  Mean- 
while he  sat  on  a  stool  before  the  fire  tapping  with  the 
poker  on  the  hearth,  wondering  whether  it  was  over  now, 
stirred  by  a  memory  of  physical  pain  and  tears.  In  a  little 
while  she  returned,  and  as  she  settled  once  more  in  the 
chair  she  made  room  for  him  beside  her.  "  Come  here," 
she  said.  He  leant  his  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and  she 
caressed  his  face. 

"  I  wonder  how  much  you  understand  me  ?  "  His  only 
answer  was  to  clasp  her  closer,  and  lean  his  head  more 
nearly  to  her  breast.  She  was  silent  for  a  while  and  when 
she  spoke,  she  spoke  to  herself  rather  than  to  him. 

"  I  suppose  you're  a  child.    You  hurt  like  a  child." 

"Dol?"hesaid.  "I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  know  I'd  hurt 
you  so  much.  It  just  came  over  me,  I  don't  know  how, 
and  I  had  to  run  away.  .  .  .  But  I  had  to  come  back,  you 
see.  I  didn't  know  that  you  loved  me — like  this.  How 
could  I  have  known  ?  .  .  .  And  even  if  you  did,  it  would 
have  been  too  awful  when  you  went  away.  It  came  to  me 
suddenly." 


94  STILL  LIFE 

"  What  made  you  think  I  did  not  love  you  ?  " 

"  You  hadn't  kissed  me,  you  see."  He  had  hesitated 
over  the  words.  Even  while  he  reached  up  to  kiss  her  lips, 
he  threw  back  his  head  in  angry  despair.  "  Oh,  God.  .  .  . 
You  must  know  that's  a  lie,  and  you  let  me  kiss  you.  .  .  . 
If  only  you'd  be  angry  with  me.  .  .  .  You're  so  calm,  you 
frighten  me.  I  don't  know  what  I've  done  to  you." 

He  tried  to  rise  while  he  spoke  ;  but  she  pulled  him  to- 
wards her  and  caressed  his  hair  again.  "  What  was  the 
reason  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  was  what  I  wrote,  what  I've  just  told  you.  You'd 
have  had  to  go  away." 

"  Would  have  had  ?  " 

He  was  silent  for  a  while.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  you'll  have 
to  go  away,  even  now.  ...  I  can't  think  of  it." 

"  But  you  did  believe  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  ...  I  couldn't  see  anything  else.  Was  I  wrong  ? 
Could  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  suppose  not." 

Her  answer  did  not  satisfy  him ;  it  awakened  a  mis- 
trust of  himself.  He  felt  that  the  truth  lay  behind  it,  and 
would  be  for  him  at  once  delight  and  pain. 

"  Please  tell  me  what  you  really  thought,"  he  said. 
;<  You're  trying  to  spare  me.  I  don't  want  to  be  spared." 

Her  immediate  past  of  debate  and  calm  decision  had 
fallen  away  from  her.  From  her  changed  self  she  spoke 
naturally,  with  a  conviction  of  truth.  "  You  see,  it  was 
different  for  me.  I  had  decided.  If  I  came  to  you  to-day, 
I  was  not  going  back.  But  how  were  you  to  know  that, 
after  all  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  doubtfully.  "  I  ought  to  have  known, 
though.  Don't  you  see  that  I  ought  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  Anne,  I 
think  you're  wonderful,  wonderful.  .  .  .  But  don't  you 
think  I  ought  to  have  known  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  few  seconds,  as  though  she 
were  deliberating  in  herself  what  to  reply.  "  No,  I  don't 
think  so,"  she  said. 


STILL  LIFE  95 

"  But  that's  what  hurt  you,  really,"  he  pursued,  "  isn't 
it  ?  I  mean  that  I  mistrusted  you.  There's  no  other 
word.  And  I  had  no  idea  of  what  was  happening.  Isn't 
that  the  truth  ?  " 

She  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  think  that  was  it,  even  more  than 
that  you  had  gone.  It's  hard  to  explain.  When  I  thought 
you  had  gone  because  you  didn't  quite  believe  in  me,  it 
hurt,  hurt.  ...  It  was  silly.  .  .  .  But  we're  all  right 
now." 

Inwardly  he  was  wondering  at  her.  He  felt  that  he 
ought  to  have  known  and  that  he  could  not  have  known, 
and  vague  in  his  mind  was  the  notion  that  too  much  was 
expected  of  him.  He  was  sorry,  but  he  did  not  see  how  it 
could  have  been  different.  In  truth  her  quiet  declaration 
that  she  did  not  intend  to  leave  him  contained  a  happiness 
so  new  and  great  that  even  yet  he  could  not  wholly  believe 
it,  at  the  moment  when  he  was  overwhelmed  with  joy. 

"  You're  not  going,  Anne  ?  It's  so  wonderful  that  I 
can  hardly  believe  it.  You're  so  much  bigger  than  I  am. 
I  don't  think  I  ever  dreamed  of  it.  There's  nothing  more 
to  say,  is  there — except  that  I'm  sorry  and  you  must 
forgive  me." 

"  There  isn't  any  forgiving  to  be  done.  ...  So  long  as 
you're  happy.  You  are,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Happy  !  I  can't  even  feel  that  you've  suffered.  I 
know  I've  treated  you  badly,  and  I  say  I'm  sorry  :  but 
inside  I'm  laughing,  simply  because  I  cannot  help  it,  out 
of  sheer  happiness.  ...  I  don't  understand  it.  ...  I 
couldn't  even  tell  anyone  about  it.  ...  Somehow,  I  feel 
quite  safe — as  though  things  couldn't  knock  me  down  or 
even  touch  me  any  more." 

She  nodded.  "  I  know.  I'm  just  as  happy.  Perhaps 
I  came  to  it  differently.  I  can't  tell  yet  and  if  I  tried  to 
tell,  I  might  be  very  convincing — to  anybody  else — but  I 
should  know  that  the  real  thing  wasn't  in  it." 

"  Yes,  it's  ridiculous  to  talk  about  it.  But  yet  I  can't 
help  doing  it." 


96  STILL  LIFE 

"  I  like  to.  Now  your  running  away  is  only  a  kind  of 
dream,  just  as  it  is  to  you.  ...  I  can't  get  hold  of  it,  or 
imagine  that  it  was  real."  She  bent  her  head  in  smiling 
despair. 

The  dusk  slowly  entered  the  room.  Although  its  first 
signs  were  almost  imperceptible,  Anne  noticed  them,  and 
sat  forward. 

"  Maurice,  we  must  talk  seriously.  What  are  we  going 
to  do  ?  We  must  go  away,  now.  We  can't  stay  here. 
Besides,  London's  impossible.  It  must  be  in  the  country. 
I  want  the  country.  And  we  must  go  now — to-night. 
.  .  .  You  see  that,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  ...  I  must  know  some  places." 

"  We  must  decide  quickly.  We  can  do  that,  you  and  I. 
But  I  must  go  back  first,  and  I  don't  want  to  meet  Jim. 
I'd  far  rather  leave  him  a  note."  Maurice  did  not  under- 
stand why  she  smiled.  "  Not  that  I  mind  meeting  him," 
she  went  on,  "  but  I  should  hate  to  see  him  cry  or  do  any- 
thing like  that.  I  might  hate  him  if  he  did.  Yes,  I  should, 
and  I  don't  want  to  do  that.  So  we  must  be  quick.  He 
doesn't  come  home  to  dinner  to-night ;  but  I  want  to 
get  my  visit  to  the  house  over  and  done  with, — now  that 
I've  had  to  think  about  it. 

"  I  know  a  lot  of  farmhouses  and  places  in  the  country  ; 
but  they're  no  good.  I  was  always  there  with  Jim.  I 
couldn't  stand  suspicions.  It  would  be  different  with 
your  places." 

"  I  know  a  farmhouse,"  he  said,  "  just  in  between  Oxford 
and  Gloucestershire,  miles  away  from  anywhere,  in  the 
hills.  I've  not  been  there  for  years.  It's  a  good  place, 
and  the  people  like  me.  Would  that  do  ?  " 

"  It  sounds  as  if  it  might.  It's  only  for  a  little  while, 
because  we  have  nowhere  else  to  go.  ...  But,  I'd  rather 
not  have  anybody  at  all  about.  I  want  us  to  be  alone. 
Don't  you  feel  that  ?  " 

The  thought  was  new  to  him,  but  he  agreed  as  though  it 
had  been  his  own. 


STILL  LIFE  97 

"  Yes,  I  don't  want  people.  It'd  spoil  everything,  if  the 
house  wasn't  all  our  own."  He  pondered  a  little  while, 
sitting  forward  on  the  edge  of  the  chair,  his  chin  resting 
on  his  hands.  Anne  Cradock  remembered  the  attitude, 
and  laid  her  arm  over  his  shoulder.  He  turned  towards 
her  and  asked  dubiously,  "  would  a  cottage  do  ?  " 

"  Why,  how  do  you  mean,  '  would  a  cottage  do  ?  " 

"  I  thought  perhaps    ...  Oh,  I'm  a  fool !  " 

"  Well,  tell  me  about  the  cottage." 

"  It's  in  Sussex.  It  belongs  to  a  man  I  know — Rich- 
mond. Of  course,  you  know  him  too.  He's  gone  abroad. 
He  once  said  I  might  have  it  when  he  was  away.  I  haven't 
got  the  key,  but  I  know  the  way  in  by  the  window.  There's 
a  big  garden,  and  it's  part  of  the  way  up  a  hill,  not  far 
from  where  the  river  runs  through  the  Downs.  It's  a 
good  place.  I  know  all  about  it.  I  once  stayed  there  two 
months." 

"  Let's  go." 

"  Besides,  I  know  the  trains,"  he  added.  "  The  one  we 
used  to  catch  went  just  after  nine.  I've  only  got  to  wire 
to  old  Moon  to  drive  us  out  there.  It's  eight  miles  from 
the  station.  We'll  have  to  take  some  things,  though.  It'll 
be  too  late  to  buy  them  there.  Shops  shut  at  eight  at 
Pirford, — that's  the  station.  .  .  .  Oh,  but  old  Moon's 
sure  to  let  us  have  enough  for  a  day.  Besides,  there's 
two  bedrooms,"  he  added  inconsequently,  "  the  one  I  made 
for  myself  and  Alfred's." 

"  That's  splendid.  Now  let's  make  plans.  I  must  go 
back  and  get  my  possessions  together.  It  won't  take  me 
long  with  Richardson.  There  aren't  so  very  many.  I'll 
have  everything  done  in  an  hour, — say,  an  hour  and  a 
quarter.  What's  the  time  now  ?  Twenty  minutes  to 
seven.  Well,  I  can  be  at  the  station  at  eight,  and  we  can 
have  dinner.  You  can  do  everything  in  that  time,  can't 
you  ?  You  haven't  got  more  things  than  I  have,  and  you 
don't  have  to  go  home.  I've  got  some  money,  so  don't 
worry  about  that."  She  suddenly  turned  to  him  and  threw 


98  STILL  LIFE 

her  arms  round  his  neck.  "  Oh,  Maurice,  I'm  so  excited. 
I'm  talking  nonsense.  .  .  .  Oh,  Morry.  ...  Now  I'm  talking 
sensibly  again.  I'll  meet  you  at  the  station  at  eight.  Take 
a  taxi  whatever  happens,  because  the  waiting  would  be 
impossible." 

He  had  caught  her  mood,  or  rather  the  mood  had  caught 
fire  from  a  spark  struck  between  them.  "  Eight !  "  he 
almost  shouted,  "  I'll  be  there,  before  you.  Anne,"  he 
said,  suddenly  approaching  her,  "  I  do  love  you."  They 
held  each  other  close,  as  though  even  to  part  for  an  hour 
would  be  intolerable.  "  But  it's  something  more,"  he 
said.  "  I  can't  believe  other  people  feel  like  this.  They'd 
tell  about  it  more." 

"  I  must  go  now,  Morry.  You  won't  be  miserable  when 
I'm  gone,  will  you  ?  No,  I  know  you  won't.  I  must 
make  myself  respectable."  In  a  moment  she  had  put  on 
her  hat,  and  kissed  him  again.  At  the  door  she  turned. 
"  What's  the  station  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  never  told  me." 

"  I  didn't,  either.  I'm  off  my  head.  Victoria.  What 
would  have  happened  ?  "  As  answer  to  his  question  he 
heard  her  running  down  the  stairs  and  he  listened  until 
the  noise  of  a  taxi-cab,  which  he  knew  for  hers,  diminished 
to  nothingness,  leaving  in  his  ears  only  the  throbbing  of  his 
blood. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MAURICE  was  peering  about  the  brilliant  station  ten 
minutes  before  the  hour.  He  had  barely  had  time  to  glance 
over  the  patchwork  of  the  bookstall,  before  he  was  borne 
away  irresistibly  to  the  entrance  pavement,  there  to  fix 
his  restless  eyes  upon  one  cab  after  another,  as  they  paused 
for  a  moment  in  their  sweep  to  shoot  a  passenger  out  of 
the  darkness  into  the  light.  He  approached  so  near  to 
their  halting-place  that  he  could  hear,  though  without 
comprehension,  each  successive  traveller  declare  his  destina- 
tion to  the  porter  who  opened  his  door.  His  eyes  soon 
told  him  that  there  was  more  than  a  usual  insistence  upon 
what  was  to  be  done  with  their  baggage.  They  pointed  out 
individual  trunks  upon  the  porter's  waggon  with  vehe- 
mence, and  one  old  man  with  whiskers  of  an  amazing  and 
translucent  whiteness  seemed  to  tire  not  of  smacking  the 
bags,  arrayed  in  order  before  him,  some  with  one, 
some  with  two  blows  of  the  ivory-handled  stick.  The 
attitude,  the  insistence,  the  vehemence,  even  the  old 
man  himself,  now  marching  stiffly  to  the  ticket-office, 
and  rapping  with  impatient  and  staccato  knocks  upon 
the  wooden  wall  in  the  distance  under  the  arch,  were 
all  familiar.  Next  from  a  circling  cab  emerged  one 
indisputably  French  by  birth  and  speech.  A  roll  of 
the  "  r's "  in  "  registered "  detached  itself  completely 
from  the  equable  flow  of  voices  which  accompanied 
the  kaleidoscopic  motion.  Maurice  responded  with  a  start 
at  the  words :  "  the  Paris  train."  Instantly  the  familiarity 
of  the  coming  and  going,  the  gestures,  and  the  old  man 
were  explained. 

99 


100  STILL  LIFE 

While  he  watched  the  incessant  sweep  of  the  cabs  round 
the  semicircle  of  the  station  approach,  he  gently  dis- 
covered himself  repeating,  "  Defense  de  se  Bencher  dehors. 
.  .  .  Defense  de  se  Bencher  dehors."  It  was  an  incantation, 
urging  him  to  smite  the  heads  that  were  thrust  out  of  the 
cabs  as  they  swung  up  to  the  entrance.  Deliberately  he 
decided  there  were  rules  to  be  observed,  and  that  the  chief 
of  these  was  that  no  heads  were  to  be  smitten  which  should 
emerge  after  the  cab  had  stopped,  firstly  because  there 
would  be  no  satisfaction  if  all  the  heads  were  eligible,  and 
all  had  eventually  to  emerge.  Secondly,  the  whole  art  and 
science  would  consist  in  smiting  the  moving  heads  in 
motion  with  a  fine  sweep  of  the  arm,  like  the  great  cavalry- 
man who  had  ridden  into  his  childhood  on  the  outside  of 
a  biscuit-tin,  cleaving  on  either  hand  a  suspended  lemon, 
while  the  cloven  fragments  paused  on  their  downward 
flight  to  the  floor.  A  sufficient  instinct  to  be  on  the  right 
side  of  the  law  restrained  him  from  carrying  his  new  art 
into  practice  ;  but  the  game  played  on  clearly  in  his  mind, 
and  he  marked  the  arrival  of  each  outstretched  head  within 
his  range  by  a  vicious  emphasis  on  his  repeated  phrase  : 
"  Defense  de  se  Bencher  dehors." 

Then  one  came,  and  it  was  Anne's. 

"  Whatever  did  you  say  then  ?  "  she  asked  as  she 
stepped  on  to  the  pavement.  The  porter  was  staring  at 
him. 

"  Oh,  nothing.  .  .  .  It's  too  stupid.  I  had  to  knock  off 
every  head  that  popped  out  of  the  window." 

She  appeared  to  understand  immediately  and  took  his 
arm.  "  Tell  the  man  where  they  are  to  go  to,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  her  boxes.  "  I've  forgotten  all  the  names 
except  old  Moon." 

"  I  knew  you'd  come,  Anne.  .  .  .  You're  not  annoyed 
with  me  for  doing  that,  are  you  ?  It  was  only  because  I 
was  impatient  for  you  to  come.  I  had  to  do  something. . . . 
Only  three  minutes  past  eight,  too.  .  .  .  Why  you  weren't 
late  at  all" 


STILL  LIFE  101 

"  Did  you  think  I  was  ?  " 

"  No,  but  it  seemed  a  long  while.  I'd  knocked  an  awful 
lot  of  heads  off  anyhow.  Wouldn't  it  be  ghastly  if  one  of 
us  had  to  wait  an  hour  or  something  like  that  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  about  such  things.  The  cab  was  just  like 
a  prison.  I  kept  on  knocking  at  the  window  to  make  the 
man  go  faster,  and  it  never  seemed  to  move.  I  had  to  give 
him  a  shilling  extra  for  that.  He  was  a  very  nice  old  man, 
though,  a  grandfather  with  a  white  beard.  He  said  he  was 
doing  all  he  could.  ...  So  he  was.  .  .  .  Have  you  got  the 
tickets  ?  " 

Maurice  looked  at  her  bemused,  and  did  not  answer  her 
question. 

"  I  don't  believe  you've  listened  to  anything  I've  said." 

"  Yes,  I  have.  ...  All  about  the  cabman  with  a  white 
beard."  He  shook  his  head.  "  No,  I  haven't  got  the 
tickets." 

"  Let's  go  and  get  them.  Here's  my  purse,  and  then 
we'll  have  something  to  eat." 

"  Come  on  then." 

"  Do  you  know,  Anne,"  he  said  as  they  sat  down  together 
at  a  table  in  a  corner  of  the  restaurant,  "  I'm  hopeless 
when  I'm  with  you.  I'd  be  perfectly  happy  not  to  go  any- 
where. Everything  roars  and  rushes."  He  waved  his  hand 
generally.  "  It's  so  pleasant  to  hear  and  look  at,  that  I 
can't  begin  to  do  anything.  To  buy  a  ticket  now — it's  a 
miracle.  It's  different  having  dinner.  You  only  have 
to  sit  down  and  it  arrives.  It's  a  wonderful  feeling 
though.  .  .  . 

"  Can  you  believe  you  were  in  your  house  this  afternoon, 
only  four  hours  ago  ?  ...  It  only  begins  for  me  when  I 
came  running  up  to  you  by  the  bridge.  You  might  put 
hundreds  of  days  in  between  this  morning  and  then ;  it 
wouldn't  make  any  difference.  I  shouldn't  know  any- 
thing about  it.  ...  Do  you  feel  like  that  too  ?  " 

She  winced  a  little,  so  little  that  he  did  not  notice  it, 
before  she  said,  "  Yes,  just  the  same.  .  .  .  Look  at  that 


102  STILL  LIFE 

waiter  over  there.  He  might  as  well  be  made  of  card- 
board. That's  how  he  looks  to  me." 

The  automatic  process  that  Maurice  had  expected  had 
been  set  in  motion.  The  waiter,  though  Swiss  and  stolid, 
was  possessed  of  the  discretion  of  experience,  which  moved 
him,  after  some  moments'  vain  expectation  of  an  order, 
to  start  the  machinery  of  the  dinner. 

"  I  don't  think  you're  eating  very  much,  Morry.  You 
can't  live  off  excitement." 

"  But  you're  not  eating  anything  yourself,  Anne.  I'm 
sure  I'm  eating  as  much  as  you." 

"  Oh,  it's  different  with  me,  I'm  older." 

"  That's  nothing.  Not  more  than  a  childhood,  anyway. 
There's  nothing  else  different  about  it." 

"  But  there's  no  excuse  for  both  of  us.  We're  as  bad  as 
each  other.  We  won't  do  anything  more  for  this  one.  It's 
cold ;  but  we'll  make  a  bargain  for  the  next.  After  the 
plates  have  been  put  down,  no  one  is  to  talk  until  the  food's 
finished."  She  stretched  her  hand  across  the  table,  and 
he  took  it.  "  A  bargain  ?  " 

"Right,"  he  said. 

Their  expression  was  as  serious  as  their  labour,  until 
Maurice,  grimaced  and  laughed.  "  It's  no  good,"  he  said. 
"  I  can't  manage  it.  Please,  we've  done  enough,  haven't 
we  ?  I'm  sure  it  doesn't  do  us  any  good.  Besides,  you're 
looking  at  me  and  I'm  looking  at  you  all  the  while. 
It's  as  bad  as  reading  the  newspaper." 

"  I  can't  go  on  either.    We'll  cry  quits." 

They  wandered  along  to  search  for  an  empty  carriage  in 
their  train.  "  I  can't  go  into  one  full  of  people,"  she  said. 
"  One  man,  even  one  man's  bag,  would  make  me  miserable 
for  hours.  I  want  to  hold  you  close  and  feel  that  you're 
really  there.  Oh,  Morry,  I'm  a  hypocrite.  I've  tried  to 
be  calm  since  I  got  out  of  the  cab.  But  the  station's  like 
a  great  theatre,  full  of  limelight  and  of  people.  I've  been 
excited  all  the  while." 

He  pressed  her  arm  very  close  to  his  side.    To  hear  her 


STILL  LIFE  103 

words  was  joy  intolerable.  Even  the  little  break  in  her 
voice  when  she  said  "  Oh,  Morry,"  seemed  to  come  from 
his  own  throat,  and  to  have  deprived  him  of  any  speech 
by  which  he  might  respond  to  hers.  All  that  he  could  do 
was  to  press  her  arm  yet  closer  and  hold  her  fingers  inter- 
twined with  his. 

"  Anne,  it's  all  right,  there  are  sure  to  be  plenty  of  empty 
ones.  I  know  this  train.  No  one  ever  goes  by  it  except 
us.  I  wish  it'd  come,  though." 

"  Why,  isn't  this  it  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  the  one  after.  Ten  minutes  before  it  comes ; 
and  then  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  it  goes." 

"  They  do  it  on  purpose." 

Together  they  stood  in  the  shadow  of  a  pillar  and  watched 
the  passengers  descend,  hurrying  to  the  barrier.  Anne 
drew  her  cloak  more  closely  round  her  for  the  night  air 
was  cold.  Inconsequently  she  asked  Maurice  a  question, 
turning  quickly  towards  him. 

"  Morry,  do  you  know  how  old  I  am  ?  ...  I  don't 
believe  you  do.  You  don't  know  anything  about  me. 
Tell  me  how  old  you  think  I  am  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  a  bit.  You  say  you're  older  than  I  am. 
Older — it's  just  silly.  Besides,  I  don't  know  how  to 
guess." 

"  I'm  thirty-two  next  birthday.  What  do  you  say  to 
that  ?  " 

"  It  doesn't  mean  anything,  nothing  at  all.  You  might 
as  well  say  you  were  sixteen.  You're  eight  years  older 
than  me  if  that's  any  comfort  to  you.  But  what  on  earth 
eight  years  can  mean,  I  can't  conceive.  ...  I  suppose 
they'd  say  you've  got  more  experience  than  I  have.  .  .  . 
I  think  I've  had  a  great  deal.  I  used  to  be  proud  of  it." 

"  Aren't  you  now  ?  " 

"It's  not  even  real.  It's  not  my  past.  I'm  not 
proud  of  it.  I'm  not  even  ashamed  of  it.  It  just  isn't 
mine." 

To  that  she  made  no  answer.    Her  past  was  real  and 


104  STILL  LIFE 

instant  to  her,  and  she  hated  it.  She  had  lived  too  much 
controlled  to  be  wholly  lost  in  new  and  unprecedented 
happenings,  and  even  though  for  hours  she  had  forgotten 
everything,  already  the  insurgent  past  clamoured  its 
continuity  with  the  present.  She  hated  it,  therefore.  She 
could  not  explain  this  to  him,  because  he  would  not  under- 
stand all.  Understanding  less,  he  would  be  hurt. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  and  he  could  only  press  her 
hand. 

They  were  alone  in  the  carriage.  A  few  passengers 
seeking  isolation  glanced  in  through  the  window.  One, 
less  exacting,  had  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  to  enter, 
idly  staying  his  hand,  looking  sideways.  They  saw  his 
face  turned  towards  them,  almost  pushed  against  the  glass, 
which  touched  and  tilted  the  brim  of  his  misshapen  felt 
hat.  Then  it  lit  up  with  an  amused  half-smile  of  recog- 
nition. He  shut  the  door  again  and  walked  on. 

"  Well.  .  .  .  What  did  he  do  that  for  ?  "  said  Maurice. 
"  He  must  be  a  good  sort.  But  I  don't  see  how.  .  .  .  Oh, 
it  must  be  pretty  plain,  I  suppose." 

"  I'm  sure  we  look  the  part.  If  a  policeman  came  and 
said  to  me  '  You're  in  love,'  I  should  just  have  to  say 
4  Yes.' ' 

"  I  believe  a  lot  of  people  do  recognise  it,"  he  said.  "  I 
should  myself.  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Fitch — my  landlady— 
suspected  me  when  I  left.  I  behaved  sensibly,  though. 
I  shaved  myself.  It's  very  queer  to  look  in  a  mirror  like 
that.  It  was  so  quiet ;  my  face  didn't  belong  to  me.  I 
lost  my  nerve  in  the  end  ; — cut  a  piece  out  of  myself." 

He  was  sitting  in  the  corner  opposite  to  her,  his  heart 
having  failed  him  when  he  tried  to  obey  the  impulse  to  sit 
beside  her.  Even  the  unnecessary  time  spent  in  arranging 
their  smaller  properties,  her  rug,  her  umbrella,  and  her 
dressing-case,  upon  the  netted  rack  had  not  been  enough 
to  determine  him.  To  lessen  the  distance  he  himself  had 
set  between  them  he  leaned  forward,  resting  his  elbows 
upon  his  knees ;  but  she  was  remote  behind  the  veil  of 


STILL  LIFE  105 

gloom  drawn  by  the  dingy  gas-flame,  leaning  back  and 
looking  sideways  out  of  the  window.  His  failure  to  sit 
down  at  her  side  made  him  uneasy.  He  could  not  continue 
to  tell  of  his  sensations  during  the  early  evening ;  and 
while  he  halted  in  his  words,  he  was  apprehensive  that  she 
had  turned  away  her  face  because  of  him. 

Now  he  was  afraid  to  cross  the  carriage  and  sit  by  her 
side.  He  should  have  done  it  instinctively,  but  the  moment 
was  past.  The  very  thought  of  moving  to  her  filled  him 
with  self-conscious  terror,  and  he  stared  at  the  floor.  How 
long  would  it  be  before  she  spoke  to  him  ?  She  would 
have  to  ask  him  why  he  was  staring  at  the  floor,  and  that 
would  be  an  excuse  for  telling  her  that  he  wanted  to  sit 
beside  her.  Without  her  question,  without  her  help,  he 
could  not. 

Suddenly  she  said  :  "  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Morry  ? 
What  are  you  twisting  your  hands  for  ?  You're  not 
nervous  ?  " 

He  looked  at  his  hands.  They  were  clammy  and  hot, 
and  he  thought  it  was  strange  that  she  had  noticed  them. 
Then  he  lifted  his  head  to  look  at  her,  smiling  indecisively, 
as  though  he  feared  that  she  might  be  angry  and  hoped 
that  she  would  see  through  everything. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  really  want  to 
know  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Well.  ...  Oh,  it's  too  silly.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  wanted 
to  sit  beside  you,  and  ...  I  don't  know.  ...  I  didn't 
do  it  at  first  when  we  came  into  the  carriage,  .  .  .  After- 
wards I  couldn't.  ...  I  didn't  dare." 

'  You  child.  Come  over  here."  She  held  out  her  arms, 
and  he  came  quickly,  lowering  his  head.  "  It  was  just  the 
same  with  me.  I  wanted  you  to  sit  beside  me — I  didn't 
dare  to  ask  you,  or  to  come  over  to  you." 

She  slid  her  arm  round  his  neck.  He  leaned  against  her, 
still  looking  at  the  floor.  It  was  wonderful  of  her  to  excuse 
him  like  that,  but  it  would  not  do.  "  It's  no  good,"  he 


106  STILL  LIFE 

said.  "  It's  not  the  same,  really.  You're  only  defending 
me.  I  ought  to  have  done  it,  and  you  expected  me  to  do 
it,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  You  child.  Why  do  you  go  on  worrying  at  a  tiny 
thing  like  that?  It's  only  because  you're  shy  of  me. 
Only  that." 

His  head  rested  upon  her  breast  now,  and  he  was  con- 
tented by  her  words.  Somehow  they  seemed  true.  And 
they  made  him  feel  happy  and  careless,  oblivious  of  the 
past. 

Moon  was  at  the  station  to  meet  them.  He  had  always 
had  a  fondness  for  Maurice.  It  rang  in  his  greeting, 
"  Here  you  are  again,  sir." 

Maurice  was  quick  with  his  explanation.  "  Hullo,  Moon. 
I'm  married.  We've  come  down  for  our  honeymoon.  Anne, 
this  is  Moon.  I've  told  you  a  lot  about  him." 

"  I  hope  it's  to  my  credit,  ma'am,"  said  Moon,  touching 
his  hat  to  Anne. 

"  All  of  it,"  she  answered,  climbing  up  into  the  tall  gig. 
Something  in  Maurice's  pretendly  ofi-hand  words  to  Moon 
vaguely  chilled  her  and  the  sensation  was  blent  with  the 
coldness  of  the  Down  air.  She  gathered  herself  together 
in  her  wraps. 

The  gig  plunged  out  of  the  station  light  into  the  dark- 
ness. A  few  shreds  of  cloud  wreathed  about  the  moon  set 
a  far  distance  between  the  sky  and  the  earth,  between  the 
gig  and  the  world.  A  separateness  had  descended  upon 
them.  The  few  words  that  were  spoken  seemed  to  faint 
and  fall  before  they  had  reached  the  hearer.  Soon  there 
was  silence  save  for  the  swift  and  steady  crunching  of  the 
road  beneath  the  wheels  and  the  clatter  of  the  horse's 
hooves.  Anne  felt  remote  and  strange.  She  was  being 
hurried  through  a  strange  country  with  no  purpose.  She 
had  surrendered  herself  to  a  mechanism  which  she  could 
not  control.  Among  the  close-packed  three  she  was  com- 
pletely denned  and  aloof. 


STILL  LIFE  107 

Beneath  the  rug  which  covered  them  all  Maurice's  hand 
stole  towards  hers,  and  she  took  it  deliberately  between 
her  own,  suddenly  aware  of  him  nervous  and  anxious 
beside  her.  Though  her  action  had  been  calculated,  the 
contact  dissolved  the  growing  sense  of  separation.  The 
thought  of  him  as  someone  to  be  comforted  and  made 
secure  overwhelmed  her.  The  impulse  she  had  hitherto 
dreaded,  yet  only  half  suppressed,  to  ask  herself  an  account 
of  her  action,  became  less  insistent. 

"  Is  it  much  further  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  not  very  far.  A  little  over  a  mile.  Not  more  than 
ten  minutes,"  he  added,  fearful  lest  she  were  growing 
weary  of  the  journey.  "  D'you  see  that  light — there — 
over  to  the  left  ?  That's  Moon's  house.  '  The  Badger.' 
That's  right,  isn't  it,  Moon  ?  " 

"  That's  it,  sir.  We  call  it  half  a  mile  from  Black  Jack's 
triangle  there.  That's  the  piece  of  grass  there,  ma'am." 
He  pointed  with  his  whip  to  a  shadowy  island  of  coarse 
turf  made  by  two  grassy  tracks  and  the  road.  "  It's  a 
queer  name.  They  say  he  was  a  man  who  did  things  agin 
the  law,  sheep  kiUin'  or  wool  smugglin'  or  such-like,  and 
they  hung  him  high  there." 

"  We're  only  a  hundred  yards  behind  *  The  Badger,'  " 
said  Maurice,  "  but  it's  small  and  hidden  from  here. 
Besides,  there's  no  light,  of  course.  How  should  there  be," 
his  voice  trailed  into  a  disappointed  silence.  A  bare  dark 
cottage  was  no  place  for  them  to-night,  for  Anne.  A 
vision  of  a  cold  and  repellent  reality  presented  itself  and 
he  feared  that  it  would  appear  even  barer  and  more 
repulsive  to  her. 

"  The  missus  put  a  light  there,  sir,  and  lit  a  fire,"  said 
Moon,  after  a  pause.  "  It's  not  kindly  to  come  to  a  cold 
house.  She'd  have  done  more,  though,  if  she'd  known 
that  you  were  coming,  ma'am." 

Maurice  felt  much  easier.  The  anxiety  which  had 
oppressed  him  during  the  ride  began  to  abate,  and  as  the 
last  distance  rolled  quickly  by  the  excitement  of  new 


108  STILL  LIFE 

adventure  was  uppermost.  He  was  taking  a  woman 
whom  he  seemed  to  know  less  with  every  hour  of  intimacy 
to  a  remote  hiding-place,  and  she  followed  him.  It  was 
miraculous  and  incalculable.  The  wonder  elated,  while 
the  sense  of  her  incalculability  and  the  tangled  dimness  of 
the  future  disquieted  him. 

He  leaped  quickly  to  the  ground  as  the  gig  drew  up  by 
the  gate  and  held  a  slightly  trembling  hand  to  Anne,  who 
held  it  close.  Together  they  went  forward  up  the  cobbled 
path,  wet  and  fresh  with  the  evening  rain.  Drops  fell 
liquid  from  the  bushes  that  rustled  as  they  touched  them. 
From  the  eaves  they  fell  more  slowly  and  heavier  with  an 
unfamiliar  clinging  sound,  which  changed  even  to  the 
measured  padding  of  a  ghostly  animal. 

"  It's  very  wet  now,"  said  Maurice,  "  but  it's  really  a 
lovely  garden — or  rather  a  wilderness.  You  will  see  for 
yourself  to-morrow," 

"  Yes," 

The  door  had  been  left  unlatched.  The  sunken  fire 
illumined  with  a  faint  redness  the  bare  floor,  and  tinged  a 
bowl  of  white  tulips  on  the  table  corner.  Anne  was  not 
curious  about  the  room,  though  she  remarked  the  flowers. 
She  was  eagerly  content  to  sit  down  in  the  large  chair 
which  Maurice  pulled  towards  the  fire.  From  outside 
came  a  dull  plump  as  the  last  trunk  descended  from  the 
cart,  and  then  the  sound  of  unsteady  steps  on  the  cobbles 
as  Moon  began  his  march  up  the  path.  Maurice  was 
stowing  away  her  wraps  upon  the  hooks  by  the  door. 

Anne  surprised  him.  He  dropped  her  coat.  Her  arms 
had  been  flung  with  a  gentle  violence  about  him.  "Oh, 
I  am  glad,"  she  said,  and  kissed  him.  Moon  was  at  the 
door.  She  ran  with  a  childish  shyness  back  to  her  chair, 
and  remained  still  while  the  bags  were  taken  through  the 
room. 

"  I  think  everything's  all  right,  sir,"  said  Moon,  "  but 
my  wife  didn't  get  you  any  things  in,  because  she  didn't 
know  what  you  might  be  bringing  with  you  from  London. 


STILL  LIFE  109 

But  of  course  we  can  let  you  have  anything  you  want. 
We've  always  plenty." 

"  That's  splendid.  We  didn't  bring  anything  at  all.  We 
were  in  too  much  of  a  hurry.  But  I  relied  on  you — as 
usual." 

"  I  know,  sir.  But  come  along  soon,  if  you  can,  sir,  or 
shall  I  send  some  things  across  ?  It's  getting  towards  our 
bedtime!" 

"  Of  course.  I'll  be  round  just  after  you.  Thank  you 
very  much."  The  door  closed. 

Maurice  went  across  to  Anne,  who  sat  as  she  was  used, 
with  her  hands  clasping  the  arms  of  her  chair.  He  spent 
much  of  his  courage  in  taking  her  two  hands,  and  his 
question  was  very  like  a  gasp,  "  Oh,  will  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  can't  see  it  very  well  ?  "  she  answered,  slowly 
smiling,  and  then,  "  Of  course  I  shall.  I  can't  say  anything 
quickly  to-night.  I'm  in  a  curious  mood.  That's  why  I 
hesitated.  Yes.  I'm  very  romantic  to-night.  A  princess 
of  the  plain,  carried  off  by  her  mountain  lover."  She 
laughed  at  Maurice's  incredulous  face. 

"  There  wasn't  very  much  of  that  about  it,  was  there  ?  " 
he  said.  "  I  wish  there  had  been  more,  don't  you  truly  ? 
.  .  .  Except  that  ...  It  wouldn't  have  been  me  ... 
after  all.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  it  wouldn't  have  been  you."  She  pulled  him 
towards  her  and  kissed  him.  "  It's  hardly  the  kind  of 
thing  I  long  for,  either."  A  whimsical,  wistful  look 
passed  over  her  face.  "  But  you  must  go  off  to  Mrs.  Moon, 
now,  mustn't  you  ?  It  doesn't  do  to  keep  good  people  out 
of  their  beds.  .  .  .  Have  you  forgotten  all  about  it 
already  ?  "  She  held  his  face  between  her  hands. 

"  I  don't  know  ...  I  seem  to  be  very  woolly  to-day. 
I  don't  think  we  should  ever  have  got  here  if  it  had  been 
forme.  I'll  go  now  though.  Let's  make  a  blaze."  Entering 
bodily  into  a  cupboard  he  rummaged  about  for  a  moment 
and  reappeared  with  an  armful  of  wood  which  he  threw 
on  to  the  fire.  It  caught Jinstantly,  for  it  was  very  dry. 


110  STILL  LIFE 

The  flames  had  begun  to  shine  on  to  some  blue  and  white 
pots  which  stood  in  the  chimney  corner  and  on  to  the 
bowl  of  flowers.  Dancing  serpentine  shadows  of  the  tulips 
flickered  over  the  wall  against  the  fire. 

Maurice  paused  at  the  door.  "  It's  beautiful.  You 
can't  see  yourself  sitting  there.  Your  hair's  all  goldy. 
...  I  shan't  be  many  minutes.  .  .  ." 

Anne  listened  to  the  quick  clatter  of  his  feet  down  the 
path,  then  many  softer  steps  fading  away,  while  the  gate 
swung  to  and  fro  over  the  latch.  He  must  be  running 
hard.  "  How  like  a  child  !  "  she  said,  and  at  the  moment 
she  loved  him  for  that  impetuousness.  The  warmth  of  the 
spiry  flames,  cloven  tongues,  ascending  high  before  they 
passed  to  yellow-brown  and  streaming  smoke,  caressed  her 
body,  then  passed  almost  burning  about  her  face.  She 
looked  out  of  the  window.  A  passing  glimpse  of  the  moon 
lit  the  drops  on  the  laurel  leaves  within  the  .small  space  of 
the  window,  and  beyond  them  the  misty  darkness  crowded 
low  on  the  earth.  How  far  she  seemed  and  how  com- 
pletely her  own,  there  by  her  own  choice,  and  there  her 
own  mistress  !  There  was  indeed  but  little  of  the  captured 
princess  in  her.  She  wondered  whether  she  regretted  it, 
as  he  so  plainly  did.  A  bewildering  recollection  of  her 
afternoon  resolve — that  afternoon — came  upon  her.  What 
was  it  had  so  suddenly  changed  her  ?  His  letter,  his  act — 
had  he  suddenly  taken  on  the  stature  of  a  man  and  the 
capacity  of  a  man's  suffering  ?  His  running  steps  seemed 
still  to  sound  in  her  ears.  They  were  boyish,  childish,  as 
were  his  timid  apprehensions  in  the  train.  He  had  not 
grown  in  a  day.  Strange  that  all  her  resolution  had  so 
instantly  been  forgotten  !  The  truth  was  still  the  same. 
She  would  have  to  meet  him,  to  advance  towards  him  at 
every  turn.  She  would  be  the  giver  and  he  the  taker 
always — always  ? — for  how  long — for  months  of  days, 
years  of  months,  for  ages  of  years.  What  was  bigger  than 
ages — centuries,  they  were  not  human.  She  stopped. 

Yes,  they  would  make  a  strange  pair  of  lovers.    Hers 


STILL  LIFE  111 

was  all  the  responsibility.  But  it  was  not  very  irksome. 
How  deliberate  and  precise  she  could  be  about  it !  The 
phrase  "  educate  him  to  love  "  entered  into  her  thought, 
and  she  smiled.  What  a  preposterous  idea  !  Then  she 
was  perturbed  at  her  own  extreme  of  consciousness  and 
longed  to  be  rid  of  it.  She  awaited  the  sound  of  his  return- 
ing steps  in  eager  expectation.  After  a  long  while  came 
the  noise  of  a  falling  cinder,  and  after  a  yet  longer  interval, 
the  faint  rumour  of  a  footfall,  slow  and  heavy,  pausing 
for  a  moment  at  the  gate. 

It  was  Maurice.  The  momentary  fancy  that  he  had 
grown  old  took  hold  of  her  as  he  came  up  the  path  to- 
wards the  door.  An  instinct  towards  the  prophetic  and  the 
ominous  had  time  to  enlarge  upon  it  before  she  heard  two 
strong  knocks.  Involuntarily  she  started  as  though  they 
had  been  unexpected. 

She  opened  the  door.  Maurice  was  apologetic.  He  had 
had  to  kick.  He  was  wonderfully  laden.  Every  pocket 
bulged  and  his  arms  were  full  of  packages  and  cans. 

"  Will  you  put  some  of  them  on  the  table  ?  You  see  I 
had  to  get  such  a  lot  of  things.  It  took  longer  than  I 
expected.  I  managed  to  set  up  house  out  of  Mrs.  Moon's 
cupboards.  And  then  I  very  nearly  forgot  all  about 
oil." 

"  How  did  you  carry  them  ?  "  She  was  angry  with 
him  for  overburdening  himself.  "  I'm  sure  you  carried 
far  too  much.  I  had  no  idea  you  had  so  much  to  bring.  I 
could  easily  have  come  with  you.  At  any  rate  I'll  not  let 
you  do  it  again." 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,  really.  I'm  quite  used  to  it.  Why, 
I'm  sure  I  carried  as  much  as  this  last  summer  all  the  way 
from  Pirford — in  my  knapsack."  Completely  unloaded, 
he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  leant  his  shoulders 
against  the  shelf.  "  I'm  very  happy,"  he  burst  out.  "  It's 
so  exciting.  I  know  the  road  to  Moon's  as  well  as  any- 
thing, but  it  was  all  strange  and  splendid  to-night.  D'you 
feel  like  that  at  all  ?  " 


112  STILL  LIFE 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  am  excited  .  .  .  but  far 
more  relieved  that  you're  back  here.  When  the  gate 
snapped,  you  might  have  been  miles  away.  I  was  very 
lonely." 

"  But  it  won't  be  too  lonely  ?  You  are  going  to  like 
it?" 

"  Yes.  Loneliness  is  one  of  my  special  moods.  It  comes 
on  me  suddenly,  anywhere.  It's  one  of  my  vices." 

"  It's  a  ghastly  thing  while  it  lasts.  ...  I  know." 

She  was  hardly  prepared  to  grant  him  the  knowledge. 
Her  loneliness  was  so  intimate  that  she  felt  a  breath  of 
disparagement  in  his  claim  to  her  experience.  He  too  felt 
dubious.  Anxiety  made  him  fumble  with  her  precious 
secrets,  and  the  thought  that  he  was  guilty  of  intrusion 
drove  him  to  hesitating  silence. 

Incessantly  urged  to  closer  contact  with  her  he  bruised 
her.  His  innocence  was  nearly  brutal.  Yet  he  was  sensi- 
tive to  her  lack  of  response  and  his  own  maladroitness. 
He  took  refuge  in  a  nervous  indifference  that  belied  itself. 
He  rolled  back  and  forward  against  the  mantelpiece  and 
whistled. 

"  You  haven't  shown  me  the  house  yet,"  said  Anne. 

"  I  forget  everything,"  he  said  despondingly. 

Despite  herself  she  laughed.  "  What  a  terrible  exag- 
geration !  Why,  one  can't  be  everything  .  .  .  Morry, 
you  can't  be.  I  know  how  it  is.  You're  still  fright- 
ened of  me.  You  don't  quite  know  how  to  handle  me, 
and  it  makes  you  depressed.  Don't  you  see  that  it's 
only  a  double  burden  ?  If  I  feel  you're  not  happy,  I'm 
miserable.  If  I  feel  you're  not  happy  because  of  me  it's 
twice  as  bad." 

He  slipped  to  his  knees  before  her  chair  and  rested  his 
head  on  her  lap.  He  didn't  know  what  to  say.  Anne 
went  on. 

"  Don't  you  see  what  it  is  ?  We're  new  to  each  other, 
not  yet  quite  sure.  I'm  only  beginning  to  get  used  to 
something  strange  in  you.  You're  only  beginning  to  get 


STILL  LIFE  113 

used  to  a  self-conscious  woman.  It's  only  a  matter  of 
hours  before  it  will  all  pass.  We  shall  be  so  close  that 
we'll  respond  to  each  other  instantly." 
'•r  She  stroked  his  tangled  hair.  He  was  close  to  her  now, 
and  her  words  bore  less  of  definite  meaning  than  of  a 
comforting  caress.  They  seemed  to  fall  into  a  melody. 
Nevertheless  he  marked  them,  though  they  were  hardly 
actual.  How  different  things  were  after  they  had  passed 
through  her ! 

"  You're  like  a  purifying  fire,"  he  said,  glancing  up  at 
her,  shy  at  his  phrase. 

"  What  a  beautiful  thing  to  say  to  me  !  "  She  under- 
stood it.  "  It  makes  me  feel  so  strong.  .  .  .  Morry,  that 
was  wonderful."  She  took  his  head  in  her  hands  and  bent 
forward  to  kiss.  He,  looking  up,  wondered  at  the  clean 
fine  lines  of  her  face,  the  dark  hair  swept  straight  across 
her  forehead,  the  delicate  motion  of  her  nostrils  as  she 
breathed  a  little  more  deeply  at  his  words,  the  dull  glint,  of 
the  thin  coral  necklace  that  sank  on  to  her  bosom.  Her 
eyes  were  glistening  and  smiling  at  once.  "  I  must  be 
crying  from  sheer  happiness,"  she  said. 

Why  was  she  so  happy  ?  He  had  only  said  a  little  thing 
so  very  simply,  he  thought,  looking  back  upon  it.  How 
could  it  have  made  her  suddenly  so  happy?  It  was 
unaccountable,  but  he  was  content  and  calm  in  her 
happiness. 

"  We  must  go  and  look  at  the  house,"  she  said. 

He  held  the  candle  high  in  the  kitchen  so  that  she  might 
see  the  copper  splendours  of  the  pots  that  hung  high  on 
the  walls.  It  was  not  a  shabby  kitchen.  For  all  his  meta- 
physical abstractions  Richmond  was  careful  to  satisfy  his 
keen  appreciation  of  the  dignity  due  to  the  mere  regimen 
of  life.  "  I  wish  I  had  more  money,"  he  used  to  say,  "  I 
would  have  my  used  possessions  perfect."  He  always 
spoke  with  an  elaborate  care.  One  day  he  said  :  "  You 
don't  know,  Maurice,  how  easy  it  is  to  degrade  yourself  in 
small  things.  It's  a  kind  of  infection,  it  will  creep  in  any- 


114  STILL  LIFE 

where.  There's  a  quality  in  one's  soul  that  comes 
directly  from  the  polish  on  one's  saucepans,  believe  me. 
I  would  rather  spend  nine  hours  on  cleaning  to  be  really 
free  for  the  tenth,  than  scamp  it  in  an  hour,  and  have  the 
nine  for  myself.  They  would  feel  to  me  gritty."  Maurice, 
inclined  to  the  same  kind  of  fantastic  speculations,  had 
remembered  this. 

Therefore  the  cottage  was  intimate  to  Anne  from  this 
first  inspection.  Its  simple  delicacy  comforted  her  while 
she  climbed  the  narrow  stairs  behind  him.  Blake  en- 
gravings loomed  for  an  instant  upon  her  from  the  stair  wall. 

"  This  is  the  big  bedroom."  She  had  had  no  more  than 
the  time  to  notice  that  several  mirrors  made  it  more  of  a 
woman's  room  than  a  man's,  when  Maurice  entered  a 
narrow  room  next  door  with  a  desk  and  some  book- 
shelves. "  This  is  my  room,"  he  said.  He  turned  a  key  in 
a  big  box  which  stood  in  the  corner,  and  pulled  out  a 
trellis  on  which  a  canvas  mattress  was  stretched.  :'  That's 
my  own  bed.  I  bought  it.  It  all  packs  away  in  the  day- 
time, so  that  I  can  have  the  room  to  myself.  It's  a  good 
window."  He  pulled  it  open,  inviting  her  to  look  outside, 
but  she  could  only  see  the  vast  masses  of  black  clouds  out- 
lined with  dull  silver,  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  a 
deeper  black  nearer  to  the  ground.  "  That's  the  woods. 
Dunton  Copse  it's  called.  You  go  about  a  half-mile 
further  along  the  road  to  get  into  it." 

"  Are  those  your  books  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Only  some  of  them.  Just  these."  He  pointed  to  two 
rows  on  the  top  shelves.  "  All  mine  are  in  those  rooms  in 
London.  I  shall  have  to  get  them  sent  down  some  time 
or  other,  I  suppose.  It  always  takes  a  long  while." 

He  was  plainly  proud  of  his  room,  and  she  asked  him 
another  question.  "  What  colour  are  the  walls  ?  I  can 
hardly  tell  in  this  light." 

"  They  do  cheat  you,"  he  agreed.  "  They're  really  a 
kind  of  blue.  It's  a  bit  purply  though.  ...  I  did  them 
myself — another  of  my  inventions." 


STILL  LIFE  115 

His  was  a  curious  little  room,  hardly  a  room  at  all, 
circumscribed  by  the  quaint  correctness  of  a  wooden  toy. 
It  was  rather  a  cell  of  infinite  precision.  "  I  like  it,"  she 
said  on  the  threshold,  "  very  much." 

Another  room,  the  last,  occupied  all  the  front  of  the 
house,  two-windowed  and  large.  Save  for  a  tiny  rug  and 
two  chairs,  one  of  which  rocked  for  a  moment  at  her  touch, 
it  was  bare  of  furniture. 

"  This  isn't  anybody's  room,  really.  Richmond  couldn't 
afford  to  furnish  it.  But  he  intends  to.  It's  really  the  best 
room  of  all.  It  has  the  morning  sun,  and  looks  straight  on 
to  the  hills.  It's  a  good  room  to  talk  in,  even  though  it 
looks  so  bare." 

Anticipating  him  she  made  haste  to  say  that  she  liked 
the  house  extremely.  It  was  true  enough,  but  ordinarily 
she  would  have  deliberated  over  a  pronouncement  so  final. 
"  I  like  to  feel  the  house  altogether,"  she  used  to  say. 

"  It  always  seems  to  me  beautiful,"  he  averred. 

Descending  the  stairs  she  felt  the  wall  on  each  side  with 
her  hands,  steadying  herself  for  the  steps  were  abrupt. 
The  novelty  of  her  surroundings  was  present  to  her  still. 

"  I  don't  feel  at  all  tired,"  she  said. 

"  Nor  I." 

"  But  we  ought  to  be  tired.  We  must  be.  I  think  it's 
time  for  bed.  Shall  I  make  some  tea  first  ?  " 

"  Let  me.    I  like  an  evening  brew." 

"  I'm  going  to  make  it  though.  I  want  to.  Is  there 
anything  to  eat  ?  I'm  beginning  to  feel  hungry  at  the 
idea." 

"  There's  bread  and  jam.  Mrs.  Moon  gave  us  a  cake 
too." 

"  Us  ?  "  she  said,  opening  the  big  cupboard  door  and 
looking  for  cups.  "I'm  sure  she  gave  it  to  you  particu- 
larly. She  would.  But  you'll  have  to  give  me  some." 

Returning  from  the  garden  with  water,  he  found  tea 
completely  arranged.  The  arrangement  had  a  certain 
particularity,  centred  in  a  single  tulip  taken  from  the 


116  STILL  LIFE 

bowl  and  set  in  a  tiny  blue  and  white  pot  from  the  mantel- 
piece. He  recognised  the  difference. 

"  How  wonderfully  you  do  it,"  he  said,  fixing  the  kettle 
on  the  glowing  coals.  "  You  must  be  used  to  it." 

"  I  don't  know.    It's  a  thing  that  belongs  to  a  woman." 


"  I  don't  like  to  leave  this  fire,"  said  Maurice.  He  was 
squatting  on  the  floor  like  a  tailor.  "  But  I  suppose  we 
must.  We  haven't  even  begun  to  talk  about  things." 

"  Far  better  talk  in  the  morning.  We  agreed  that  we'd 
go  directly  after  the  tea.  Already  we  must  have  spent 
another  half-hour,  without  saying  a  word,  just  enjoying 
our  laziness."  She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  lit  the  two 
candles  which  stood  on  the  window-ledge. 

"  I  have  to  make  my  bed,"  he  said,  when  they  reached 
the  stair-head.  "  I  think  yours  is  all  right." 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  make  one  properly  ?  I  don't 
suppose  you  do."  She  led  the  way  to  his  room.  "  Bring 
me  the  things." 

"  That's  better  than  your  idea,"  she  said,  giving  the 
coverlet  its  final  adjustment,  and  turned  towards  the 
door.  "  I  think  I'd  better  see  about  my  own."  He  hesi- 
tated. Abruptly  she  turned  and  caught  hold  of  him. 
"  Won't  you  kiss  me  good  night  ?  "  She  had  already 
kissed  him,  and  now  he  had  the  courage  to  hold  her  close. 
Immediately  his  head  sank  on  to  her  shoulder.  "  Are  you 
so  very  tired  ?  .  .  .  You  see  I  have  to  do  everything," 
she  said,  laughing.  "  Good  night,  Morry." 

"  Good  night,  Anne." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MAURICE  listened  to  the  sounds  from  Anne's  room,  while 
he  undressed  himself  mechanically.  The  feeling  that  he 
had  once  more  failed  her  oppressed  him.  To  have  done  so 
now  seemed  like  a  culmination  of  failure.  Why  did  he  not 
go  forward  to  meet  her  ?  Instead,  he  had  not  the  courage 
to  do  as  he  himself  desired.  He  had  lost  her  in  a  moment. 
In  him  there  was  a  void,  so  that  she  found  nothing  where 
she  expected  to  meet  him.  If  only  he  knew  what  she 
thought,  if  only  she  knew  how  much  self-accusation  he  had 
to  endure,  how  much  it  cost  him  to  do  even  what  he  did, 
then  it  would  all  be  right.  The  assurance  of  her  active 
sympathy  was  sufficient  for  him. 

The  sounds  in  her  room  ceased.  She  must  have  gone  to 
bed  now.  A  gust  of  wind  penetrating  through  the  chinks 
of  the  diamond  glass,  fluttered  his  candle.  He  wondered 
whether  she  was  cold,  and  his  mind  rushed  back  to  the 
warm  comfort  of  the  house  at  Kensington.  He  had  thought 
it  so  natural  that  she  should  come  with  him  that  day ; 
miraculous,  too,  but  by  a  strangely  natural  miracle,  upon 
which  he  had  at  most  moments  during  the  last  days 
securely  counted.  How  far  away  she  was  in  the  other 
room  !  He  stared  at  the  dim  picture  at  the  foot  of  his  bed, 
and  into  the  frame  he  put  a  vision  of  her  as  she  lay  there  in 
the  big  room.  The  dark  line  which  her  hair  made  against 
the  pillow  was  very  clear.  Her  head  would  be  resting  upon 
her  hand — that  was  indubitable.  The  vision  was  complete 
and  by  worlds  remote  from  him,  as  he  endeavoured  to  forge 
a  bond  between  them,  to  bridge  over  the  utterness  of  their 
parting  at  his  door.  The  effort  failed.  In  spite  of  all  his 
anxious  labour  no  relation  could  be  made  between  the 

117 


118  STILL  LIFE 

wonderful  being  who  lay  there  apart  and  him,  staring  at 
the  picture  over  his  bed  foot.  A  passionate  desire  grew 
in  him  to  pass  over  the  abyss  between  them.  If  only — oh, 
why  did  he  feel  so  helpless  in  their  moments  of  intimacy  ? 
From  them  he  brought  nothing  away  to  comfort  him ; 
only  a  conviction  of  his  own  insufficiency  remained  to  make 
him  lonely  as  he  was  now. 

Now  his  every  member  was  present  to  him,  sharply  con- 
toured. The  vivid  lines  that  bounded  him  severed  him 
from  things  beyond,  and  he  was  a  speck  in  a  vast  circum- 
ambient universe.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hear, 
even  watch  his  brain,  ticking  as  a  noisy  clock,  with  a 
metallic  sound  that  echoed  into  empty  spaces  beyond. 
Drowsy  now,  he  contemplated  it  and  listened.  A  slight 
shiver  trembled  over  his  body.  He  was  cold,  but  he  could 
not  impel  himself  to  move.  Eyes  shut,  he  listened  to  the 
noise  of  his  own  brain,  which  now  confused  with  the  throb- 
bing of  some  pulse  in  his  head.  He  was  so  tired  that 
he  enjoyed  the  constant,  tiny  check  upon  his  desire  to 
sleep. 

A  soft  footfall  made  itself  heard  above  the  beat  of  his 
own  blood.  Half  instinct,  half  conscious  purpose  held  his 
eyes  open  only  so  far  that  he  could  see  a  blur  between  his 
lashes.  The  noisy  latch  lifted  so  quietly,  the  door  moved 
so  slowly  that  he  was  nearly  frightened.  Then  he  saw 
Anne  on  tiptoe  moving  towards  him.  So  much  beauty 
was  apparent  in  her  as  she  stood  for  a  moment  quite 
still  beside  him,  a  reticent  loveliness  of  warm  half-hidden 
lights,  he  was  incredulous  that  she  had  come  to  him. 
Feigning  sleep,  he  began  to  breathe  more  slowly,  clutching 
the  coverlet.  Her  hand  was  playing  lightly  with  his  hair, 
then  was  pressed  hard  on  the  pillow  beside  his  head,  while 
she  bent  down.  She  must  be  just  looking  at  him,  for  he 
could  feel  the  warmth  of  her  slowly-given  breath  upon  his 
cheek.  Every  little  thread  of  it  was  distinct  and  percep- 
tible to  him.  His  nerves  seemed  separately  to  quiver  with 
their  sensitiveness,  as  though  each  smallest  pulse  of  sensa- 


STILL  LIFE  119 

tion,  before  lost  in  one  indistinguishable,  now  for  the  first 
time  had  its  own  quality.  Then  she  kissed  him  on  the  lips 
and  whispered :  "  Morry,  darling.  .  .  .  How  like  a  little 
boy  he  is.  .  .  ." 

He  moved  in  pretended  sleep,  and  he  could  not  prevent 
a  smile  of  happiness  from  puckering  his  lips.  For  a  second 
her  hands  were  again  touching  lightly  his  hair ;  yet  more 
lightly  in  fear  to  disturb  him  she  touched  his  lips  with  hers 
and  moved  away.  Listening,  with  eyes  still  shut,  to  retain 
her  presence,  he  heard  no  sound  of  her  return. 

She  had  bathed  him  in  herself  ;  the  comfort  of  her  con- 
tact and  caress  wreathed  in  ascending  waves,  like  a  curling 
smoke,  above  him.  The  hardness  which  had  circumscribed 
him  gently  obliterated  and  dissolved  away.  He  became 
one  with  all  that  surrounded  him  ;  his  consciousness  ebbed 
out  into  his  body  and  was  lost. 

He  awoke  suddenly  into  the  deep  dark.  A  nameless 
terror  pressed  upon  him.  Still  dizzy  he  stood  on  the  floor 
and  shivered.  Then  he  opened  his  door  and  went  to  hers. 
He  knocked  quickly  and  entered.  Hardly  noticing  whether 
she  were  asleep  or  awake  he  hurried  into  the  big  bed,  and 
curled  close  to  her.  Before  he  fell  asleep  he  knew  that  she 
had  kissed  him  and  pressed  him  against  her. 

Anne  watched  him  rub  his  eyes  awake  with  screwed-up 
fists  and  thrust  the  overshadowing  hair  away  from  his  fore- 
head. Smiling  with  tender  amusement  she  wondered  what 
he  would  say.  He,  too,  smiled  with  a  dreamy  recognition 
at  her.  Then  he  started.  "  0 — oh,"  he  said,  and  kept  a 
startled  silence  for  a  moment,  staring  into  her  eyes  as  she 
lay  beside  him. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  you've  not  slept  at  all." 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  can't  have  been  awake  more  than  a  half- 
hour." 

"  Why  didn't  you  wake  me  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  ?  You  were  tired.  The  longer  you 
slept  the  better." 


120  STILL  LIFE 

"  Wasn't  it  curious. ...  I  mean  me  here  beside  you  while 
you  were  awake  ?  " 

"  Not  so  curious.  Besides,  I've  been  looking  out  of  your 
window  on  to  the  fields.  They're  so  beautiful." 

He  was  ruminative  and  she  laughed  aloud.  "  You  have 
a  scared  look  about  you.  Are  you  wondering  how  you  got 
here  ? " 

"  I  wonder  what  the  time  is,"  he  said  inconsequently. 

Anne  reached  across  to  the  table  by  the  bedside  for  a 
little  travelling  clock  and  placed  it  in  his  hands. 

"  My  hat.  It's  just  on  ten."  He  whistled  with  an  empty 
windy  noise.  "  A  good  job  I  put  out  the  can  for  the  milk. 
Jim's  gone  two  hours  ago." 

He  sat  upright,  stretched  his  hands  behind  his  head,  and 
looked  at  her.  The  puzzled  expression  was  still  in  his  face. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  me  ?  "  he  said  at  length, 
pausing  with  one  foot  still  beneath  the  bedclothes.  He  did 
not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  ran  to  the  door.  "  I'll  have 
the  downstairs  done  in  a  minute.  It'll  be  all  ready  for  you. 
I'm  an  expert.  But,"  he  added  with  his  hand  still  on  the 
latch,  "  we'll  have  to  get  somebody,  sure  we  shall." 

Anne  was  lazy  for  a  little  while,  until  she  heard  the 
sound  of  violent  activities  downstairs.  Doors  banged 
windy  intervals  in  the  noise  of  vigorous  sweeping.  A  great 
cleanliness  hung,  slightly  chill,  about  the  house.  It  was  a 
quicksilver  day,  and  as  the  spring  sun  poured  busily  in 
through  the  uncurtained  windows  and  fought  amiably 
with  the  spring  winds  that  pressed  through  the  chinks 
there  was  to  her  vision  something  quicksilver  in  the  whole 
situation.  An  active,  elusive  principle  was  eagerly  at  work, 
escaping  the  grasp.  On  a  moment  everything  seemed  to 
change  its  quality.  Soon  it  would  be  just  a  windy  game, 
and  she  a  girl.  A  quick  clattering  of  cans  below  tinkled 
accompaniment.  She  was  very  gay  at  heart,  and  once  out 
of  bed,  she  dressed  with  an  exciting  swiftness,  and  hurried 
down. 

Maurice  was  sweeping  ashes  from  the  fire,  but  he  turned 


STILL  LIFE  121 

as  she  came  into  the  room.     "  You  did  look  lovely  this 
morning,"  he  said  without  a  pause  in  his  sweeping. 

"  Did  I  ?  "  A  naive  answer  to  this  disconcerting  attack 
shaped  involuntarily.  "  I  didn't  know."  She  hesitated 
where  she  stood,  vaguely  expecting  that  he  would  regard 
her  closely.  She  had  dressed  in  something  he  had  not  seen 
before,  in  a  long  blue  gown,  shaped  close  to  her  waist  and 
body,  descending  to  an  amplitude  of  skirt.  She  knew  it 
was  beautiful. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  asked  as  he  took  up  his  bucket. 
"  Get  the  breakfast  ?  " 

"  Will  you  ?  That  would  be  splendid.  I  shall  be  over 
with  mine  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour."  He  hurried  out  into 
the  back  garden  ;  the  creaking  of  a  pump  handle  and  much 
cold  splashing  followed  his  exit. 

Breakfast  done,  they  sat  talking  in  front  of  the  fire. 

"  Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do  now  ?  "  said  Anne. 

Maurice  was  taken  aback.  "  There's  lots  of  things,"  he 
explained  generally. 

'l  Tell  me  then." 

"  Why,  we've  got  to  clear  up  for  to-day.  Then  we'll 
have  to  go  and  find  somebody  to  come  in  and  look  after  us. 
And  there's  lunch  and  dinner.  A  general  round-up  wouldn't 
be  a  bad  thing,  would  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  mean  these  things.  They're  taken  for 
granted.  I  mean  rather  ..." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  Well,  I  thought  it  would  be  fine  if  we  went 
for  a  long  walk  this  afternoon.  I  want  to  show  you  all  the 
place  about.  Besides,  we  could  go  in  and  see  Mrs.  Fletcher 
at  Stackling  on  the  way." 

"  Who's  Mrs.  Fletcher  ?  " 

"  She's  the  woman  who  used  to  do  for  Richmond  and  me 
when  we  were  here.  She  lives  at  Stackling.  That's  not 
more  than  a  mile  and  a  half  along  by  the  path,  and  there's 
a  gorgeous  road  on  to  the  hills  from  there.  Not  a  real 
road  of  course,  all  overgrown,  supposed  to  have  been  a 
smugglers'  way.  I  like  that  kind  of  thing." 


122  STILL  LIFE 

Anne  was  persistent  with  her  question. 

"  That's  to-day.  But  what  are  we  going  to  do  the  othei 
days  ?  I  mean  ..."  She  leant  forward  on  the  table  with 
her  chin  on  her  hands. 

"  I  never  thought  about  that." 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  did.  But  it  suddenly  struck 
me." 

"  Well,  it  won't  be  so  very  different  from  what  it  was  in 
London.  I  never  really  had  anything  to  do  there,  you  see. 
I  mean  that  I  didn't  make  any  money.  I  managed  to  live 
of  course.  No  one  has  ever  given  me  money  or  made  me 
an  allowance  or  anything  of  that  kind.  I  make  a  little  in 
between  whiles  by  doing  little  jobs  for  papers.  Cradock 
used  to  get  me  some."  He  looked  at  her  with  surprised 
discovery.  "  I  suppose  that's  all  over  now.  That's  funny. 
It's  quite  hard  to  get  the  hang  of  things.  This  business  oi 
ours  seems  so  complete  in  itself  that  it's  difficult  to  imagine 
that  it  has  anything  to  do  with  other  people  at  all.  Can 
you  believe  that  lots  of  people  will  be  talking  about  us  ; 
fairly  dropping  on  us  ?  That's  so  curious,"  he  went  on 
without  a  pause.  "  Can't  see  why  they  should.  They've 
suddenly  all  become  unreal,  and  they  weren't  very  real  to 
me  before.  Are  they  real  or  unreal  to  you  ?  " 

Anne  nodded  her  head  slowly.    "  Not  real  at  all." 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  this  is  the  first  time  that  I've 
realised  that  we've  done  something  ?  I  knew  that  it  was 
all  wonderful,  but  there  was  something  so  natural  in  it  all. 
...  I  never  dreamed  till  now  that  we  were  making  an  event 
for  other  people.  My  hat,  we've  been  and  gone  and  done 
it."  He  wagged  his  head  for  a  little  while.  ''  Yes,  we 
have,"  he  said.  "  Are  you  glad  ?  " 

:<  Yes,"  said  Anne.  She  did  not  want  to  interrupt  him. 
She  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  sorry  that  he  had  under- 
stood so  little  what  she  herself  had  done,  or  to  be  happy 
because  he  was  so  spontaneous.  She  was  frightened 
rather  by  the  depth  and  sincerity  of  his  natural  self- 
absorption.  They  were  like  two  circles  that  had  been 


STILL  LIFE  123 

important  in  her  algebra,  she  thought,  one  wholly  contain- 
ing the  other. 

"  What  was  it  we  were  talking  about  ?  "  he  said  abruptly. 
"  Oh,  what  we  were  going  to  do.  I  think  I  shall  go  on  in 
much  the  same  way.  I  read  an  awful  lot.  I  don't  know 
that  I  do  much  besides.  I  seem  to  have  spent  all  my  time 
talking,  mostly  to  Dennis.  But  then  I  don't  see  such  a 
great  deal  of  him,  not  so  much  as  I  would  like.  I  wonder 
what  I  spend  most  time  at,"  he  said  disingenuously.  "  Of 
course  I  do  try  to  write  other  things." 

How  quickly  the  "  we  "  had  whittled  down  to  the  "  I," 
Anne  thought.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  she  would 
have  to  do  something.  Why  should  it  ?  If  he  did  not 
think  about  it  naturally,  far  better  not  think  about  it  at 
all.  After  all  there  was  no  problem  as  regards  herself,  and 
therefore  no  need  for  his  help  in  its  solution.  It  was  simple 
for  her  to  continue  as  she  had  been,  but  with  the  old 
restraints  and  vexations  gone. 

He  was  looking  out  of  the  window.  "  Why,  there's  a 
month's  hard  labour  in  the  garden  alone.  It's  worth 
making  perfect.  Do  you  know  a  lot  about  gardening  ?  " 

"  Something,  not  very  much.  Perhaps  enough  to  man- 
age the  garden  here.  We  can  make  a  beginning  to-day." 
She,  too,  glanced  out  of  the  window,  looking  sideways  at 
his  face.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking  about  nothing  at  all. 
"  Do  you  like  music  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  pondered  for  an  instant.  "  I  don't  know,  honestly. 
I  only  have  music  by  fits  and  starts,  and  it's  hard  to  tell. 
Sometimes  I  like  it  very  much.  But  there's  this  certain 
fact.  I've  never  been  to  a  concert  of  my  own  choice.  Why, 
do  you  ?  " 

'  Yes,  very  much." 

"  It's  a  pity.  You  can't  get  very  much  in  the  country, 
can  you  ?  " 

"  Another  thing,"  said  Anne,  "  how  are  we  for  money  ?  " 

"  That's  been  at  the  back  of  my  mind  for  the  last  hour. 
One  thing,  it's  very  cheap  living  here.  I've  got  quite  a  lot 


124  STILL  LIFE 

— for  me — in  the  bank,  over  forty  pounds.  That  will  last 
a  long  while.  Three  months,  at  least.  I  dare  say  I  shall 
make  some  more  during  that  time.  I  must,"  he  said, 
rising  from  his  chair  and  standing  beside  her. 

Anne  laid  her  hands  on  his  arm.  "  I  was  teasing  you," 
she  said.  "  I've  got  a  lot  of  money.  I  forget  quite 
how  much.  Besides,  it's  never  quite  the  same.  But  it's 
nearly  three  hundred  pounds  a  year.  That's  five  pounds 
a  week,  and  it  belongs  to  me.  Yes,  five  pounds  a  week." 

"Six,"  said  Maurice. 

"  Oh,  that's  why  there  always  seems  to  be  something 
over.  I  make  a  rule  never  to  spend  more  than  five  pounds 
a  week.  So  there's  nothing  to  worry  about,  is  there  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  dubiously.  "  What  an  awful  lot  of 
money  !  I  should  never  be  able  to  earn  as  much,  never." 

"  Why  should  you  ?  Isn't  it  as  much  yours  as  mine  ?  " 
She  stood  up  and  put  her  arms  round  him.  His  lips  were 
pouting. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  fair,"  he  said. 

"  How  not  fair  ?  If  you  had  the  money,  you'd  give  me 
half,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  would." 

"  Well,  then." 

He  was  hardly  convinced,  but  enough  convinced  to 
allow  him  to  begin  to  clear  up.  "  At  all  events  we  can 
afford  a  servant,"  she  said,  as  she  pushed  him  quietly  aside 
and  piled  the  tray  herself. 


They  were  slowly  climbing  the  smugglers'  road.  The 
freshness  of  the  clean  air,  the  bright  flashes  of  green  and 
yellow  from  the  new  turf  and  the  gorse  buds,  sent  a  care- 
less consciousness  of  their  own  active  bodies  through  them, 
and  overwhelmed  the  lingering  half-taste  of  a  difference. 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  do  for  us  ?  "  said  Maurice. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  lane  hidden  by  the  copse  which 
they  had  just  skirted  was  Mrs.  Fletcher's  house.  She  would 


STILL  LIFE  125 

come  herself  of  course  if  Mr.  Temple  preferred,  but  would 
he  mind  if  her  daughter  came  instead  ?  Then  Mrs.  Fletcher 
had  addressed  Anne  and  informed  her  that  Alice  had  never 
been  out  before,  but  that  she  knew  all  about  cleaning  and 
cooking.  "  At  least,  all  that  I  have  to  teach  her,  m'm." 
Alice  had  appeared,  blushing,  with  an  unexpected  curtsey 
for  Anne,  and  it  had  been  then  and  there  agreed  that  Alice 
should  begin  to-morrow. 

"I  think,  admirably.  I  wonder  if  she  will  go  on  curtsey- 
ing in  the  house.  She  can't  very  well,  if  she's  carrying 
things." 

"  No.  I'm  sure  she'll  work  hard.  Mrs.  Fletcher  has 
taught  her  that,  I  bet.  Did  you  see  her  pots  and  pans  in 
the  kitchen  ?  But  you  didn't  come  in.  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  saw  them  shining  even  through  the  window.  I  didn't 
like  to  go  in.  I'm  always  afraid  that  I  shall  intrude."  She 
saw  that  he  was  wondering  whether  he  had  intruded.  "  It's 
different  for  you.  You  know  them  very  well.  Besides, 
you're  not  half  so  self-conscious  as  I  am." 

"  I  always  think  I'm  the  self-conscious  one." 

"  That's  not  so  really.  You  weren't  in  the  least  self- 
conscious  with  Mrs.  Fletcher,  were  you  ?  " 

"  No — now  that  I  come  to  think — it  never  occurred  to 
me." 

"  That's  it,  and  I'm  sure  you  never  have  been.  You  can 
forget  about  it  all  quite  easily,  if  you  have  the  right  people. 
If  you  have  to  do  with  people  who  are  natural,  you  are 
perfectly  natural  yourself.  I  hardly  ever  forget  myself 
entirely.  It's  not  quite  what  you  would  call  self-conscious- 
ness. I  always  hold  something  in  reserve.  I  never  give  quite 
enough  of  myself  to  be  able  to  ignore  other  people's  rights. 
I  don't  go  into  Mrs.  Fletcher's  house  because  I  haven't 
taken  her  into  mine.  Do  you  understand  what  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Still  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Fletcher  ever  dreamed 
of  looking  at  it  from  that  point  of  view." 

"  Nor  I,  of  course.  I'm  really  finding  out  about  myself. 
If  I  did  go  in  I  should  have  very  likely  to  behave  much 


126  STILL  LIFE 

more  amiably  than  I  felt.  Besides,  I  always  get  cross  when 
I'm  treated  as  a  being  from  another  world.  People  like 
Mrs.  Fletcher  never  are  quite  comfortable  with  me.  It 
doesn't  make  any  odds  whether  I'm  very  nice,  or  over- 
flowing with  hauteur.  They  always  think  that  I'm  doing 
them  a  kindness,  and  that  makes  me  angry.  Oh !  I've 
learnt  it  by  long  experience." 

"  It's  strange  how  different  we  are  in  things  like  this." 
At  the  edge  of  an  old  chalk-pit  they  paused  and  looked 
back  into  the  copse,  which  now  began  to  hide  the  black  of 
its  wood  in  the  greenness  of  the  new  leaves,  on  to  the  road 
which  curled  white  round  the  hill  foot  till  it  guided  their 
eyes  to  their  own  cottage. 

"  Who's  more  to  be  envied  ?  "  asked  Anne. 

"  You." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  The  people  who  like  you  like  you 
much  more  than  they  would  me.  And  there  can't  be  any 
people  who  don't  like  you.  They  don't  have  time  to. 
You're  scared  off." 

An  undecided  smile  flickered  over  his  lips.  "  I  can't 
help  it." 

"  Of  course  you  can't.  But  I'm  amazed  that  Jim  didn't 
scare  you.  You  went  to  ask  him  for  work,  didn't  you  ? 
I've  always  been  told  he's  terrible  in  the  office." 

"  Oh,  that  was  funny.  I  sent  up  my  name  ;  but  some- 
one must  have  made  a  mistake,  and  gone  to  the  wrong 
room.  At  all  events  he  wasn't  expecting  anybody.  When 
I  got  to  his  room  I  tapped  ever  so  lightly  on  the  door  and 
slid  in.  You  don't  know  how  quiet  I  can  be  when  I'm 
nervous.  He  was  behind  a  tall  desk  so  that  he  couldn't 
see  me  unless  he  looked  up  deliberately.  I  must  have  sat 
in  the  chair  twenty  minutes  before  he  noticed  me.  He  was 
immensely  surprised.  Then  he  burst  out  laughing.  After 
that  he  must  have1  felt  sorry  for  me  or  something.  He  was 
very  decent ;  gave  me  some  tea  ;  and  sent  me  away  with 
a  book  under  my  arm.  After  that  day  he  was  always  rather 
amused  with  me." 


STILL  LIFE  127 

"  Oh,  I  can  see  him,"  said  Anne.  "  It  was  exactly  like 
him.  But  didn't  he  say  '  By  God,  man,'  when  he  noticed 
you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  did.    I'd  forgotten  that." 

"  I  knew  he  would." 

Maurice  was  perplexed  and  awkward  while  Anne  spoke 
of  Cradock.  He  couldn't  understand  how  she  could  speak 
of  him  so  easily.  Therefore,  he  dug  holes  in  the  turf  with 
his  stick  and  busied  himself  in  constructing  a  pattern. 

"  It's  rather  sad  that  a  woman  can't  live  by  respecting 
a  man,"  she  said  as  though  to  herself.  But  she  had  spoken 
to  him,  for  she  asked,  "  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is,"  he  said  shyly. 

"  Have  you  begun  to  wonder  why  I  left  him  so 
easily  ?  " 

"  I'd  just  begun  to  think  about  it."  Now  that  he  did,  it 
puzzled  him.  He  had  liked  Cradock.  Particularly  on  the 
night  of  the  dinner-party  he  had  admired  the  way  Cradock 
had  treated  his  wife.  There  was  a  kind  of  natural  courtesy, 
a  real  respect,  in  his  behaviour.  Of  course  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  be  intimate  with  Cradock.  That  he  realised 
by  comparing  him  with  Dennis.  But  still  .  .  .  there  was 
something  decent  about  Cradock. 

"  Let's  go  on  now,"  said  Anne.  "  I  would  like  an  early 
tea."  They  walked  across  the  slope  of  the  hill  hand  in 
hand.  "  It's  really  much  simpler  to  understand  if  you 
don't  think  about  it,  I  believe,"  she  said.  "  It  seems 
to  me  so  very  obvious ;  yet  it  would  be  quite  hard  to 
explain." 

Maurice  followed  her  instantly.  He  felt  that  they,  walk- 
ing along  together,  were  so  extraordinarily  just  and  right, 
that  it  was  only  a  waste  of  time  to  bother  about  things 
before.  From  her  he  felt  a  growing  conviction  of  sanity 
that  warmed  him  and  slowly  welled  into  a  sense  of 
triumph.  His  grasp  of  her  hand  tightened.  He  faced  her 
and  quickly  wound  her  tight  in  his  arms,  kissing  her 
passionately. 


128  STILL  LIFE 

Almost  before  their  lips  had  met  the  burning  impulse 
had  chilled  to  ashes  in  him.  He  could  not  lose  himself  in 
her.  He  saw  her  eyes  closed,  her  head  bent  back.  He  saw 
everything.  Above  all  he  saw  himself,  deliberate  and 
conscious. 

He  shut  his  eyes  that  the  actual  things  around  might  not 
become  an  obsession.  In  a  moment  they  were  clearer, 
harder,  more  instant  in  his  vision.  The  broken  fairy 
rings  of  deep  green  grass  were  definite  as  diagrams ;  the 
gnarled  trunk  of  an  oak  made  one  clear  contorted  line. 
He  had  seen  them  blindly  but  a  minute  before,  now  they 
pressed  into  his  consciousness,  tyrannical.  Anne  dis- 
engaged herself  from  him,  and  he  stood  gazing  at  the 
ground,  mute,  oppressed  and  trembling.  A  vast  was 
between  them. 

"  I'm— sorry,"  he  faltered. 

It  was  past  bearing.  Quick  anger  rose  in  Anne.  Dull 
fought  with  the  bright  in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  why  ?  .  .  .  You 
torture  me. ..."  She  clenched  her  hands  by  her  sides,  pant- 
ing breath  crowded  through  her  nostrils.  Her  lips  pressed 
nervously  together.  He  did  not  lift  his  eyes,  and  as  she 
looked  at  him,  her  strength  and  her  anger  died  in  her,  like 
a  wind  that  drops  and  leaves  the  sail  fluttering  empty 
against  the  mast.  For  her  weakness  she  could  have  fallen. 
She  reached  for  his  hand. 

"  Let's  go  home,  now,"  she  said.  A  shudder  shook  him 
so  violently  that  his  hand  trembled  in  hers.  She  held  it 
tighter.  "  Let's  go,  Morry." 

He  strode  quickly  on  the  downhill  path.  The  jar  of  each 
step  was  a  relief  to  him.  The  spring  sun  wheeling  to  its 
setting  in  a  blaze  of  light  mocked  them  both.  A  dead  fire 
burned  within  him.  He  must  do  something.  He  ought 
to  cry.  "  Oh,  God,"  he  moaned. 

The  note  of  the  words  told  Anne  that  he  had  passed 
away  from  her.  "  Don't,"  she  said.  "  It's  nothing."  He 
stood  stock  still,  facing  her. 

"  Oh,  no.    It's  nothing.  .  .  .  It's  just  me."    He  trembled 


STILL  LIFE  129 

only  a  little  from  fatigue,  but  the  tremor  was  perceptible 
in  his  speech.  "  I  fail .  .  .  just  fail.  .  . ." 

"Don't— don't  speak  like  that."  She  despaired  that 
ever  her  voice  would  carry  down  the  void  and  reach  him. 

"  You  don't  want  me — now." 

"  Morry." 

She  let  his  head  rest  upon  her  shoulder,  glad,  unutterably 
glad  of  the  burden.  Upon  them  both  a  wide  peace  de- 
scended. 

"  Let  us  go  now,"  she  said  quietly. 

;'  Yes."  He  caught  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  resting  his 
lips  upon  it  for  a  long  while,  then,  saying  nothing,  they  set 
out  for  home. 

Sitting  in  the  house  while  the  darkness  slowly  gathered 
about  them  they  breathed  an  exquisite  calm.  For  a  while 
it  was  common  to  them  both.  More  than  the  rest  after 
long  physical  fatigue  was  the  conscious  delight  of  the  body, 
but  lately  threatened  and  agitated  by  the  mind,  in  the 
mind's  peace.  In  Maurice  it  passed  imperceptibly  into  a 
keen  contentment.  The  struggle  was  finally  ended  and  he 
was  free.  The  bond  between  himself  now  and  himself  of 
two  hours  ago  slipped  easily  from  him.  Remembering 
events,  not  feelings,  he  wondered  aloud. 

"  How  strange  that  was.  Wasn't  it  awful  while  it  lasted, 
Anne  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  quickly.  She  had  been  stabbed 
again. 

"  I  can't  think  of  it  if  I  want  to.  I  can  see  us  there 
on  the  hill,  by  the  old  oak  and  the  fairy  rings,  but  I 
can't  get  nearer  to  it.  It's  only  a  picture.  But  it's 
ghastly." 

;'  Yes,  .  .  .  it's  hard  to  recall."  Anne  was  hurt  that 
the  memory  had  so  wholly  faded  for  him.  To  herself  it 
was  very  present.  The  words  he  had  spoken  echoed  in  her. 
For  a  moment  she  wondered  in  which  Maurice  she  was  to 
believe,  for,  she  thought,  it  would  be  hard  to  hold  them 
both.  She  could  never  go  through  it  again.  The  sound 


130  STILL  LIFE 

of  his  careless  voice  almost  convinced  her  that  she  would 
never  need  to. 

"  Are  you  going  to  write  to  Jim  ?  "  he  asked. 

'  Yes Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  I  was  only  curious.  Won't  it  be  rather  a  job  ?  I'm 
just  thinking  about  things  again,  wondering  what'll 
be  in  his  mind  now.  It  seems  a  shame  that  you  should 
have  the  business  of  writing  while  I  don't  have  any- 
thing." 

"  I  don't  think  about  it  very  much,"  she  said.  "  A 
letter  to  Jim  now  is  rather  like  any  other  letter.  I  don't 
want  to  hurt  him,  but  if  I  must,  well,  I  can't  let  it  worry 
me  deeply.  It  wouldn't  in  any  case." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  he  said,  as  though  he  saw  the 
matter  under  a  new  aspect. 

"  I  think  I'll  write  now.  It'll  catch  the  evening  post, 
won't  it  ?  " 

Maurice  looked  up  at  the  clock.  "  If  you  finish  in  half 
an  hour,  easily."  He  went  upstairs,  while  she  cleared  a 
space  upon  the  table  for  herself,  into  which  she  arranged 
the  pad  and  paper  which  he  brought  down. 

"I'll  wash  the  tea-things,"  he  said,  dimly  suspecting  that 
this  was  an  occasion  on  which  she  should  be  left  alone.  He 
left  the  room  with  the  tray. 

He  wondered  what  she  was  saying  in  her  letter,  though 
he  tried  to  convince  himself  that  it  didn't  really  matter. 
A  little  spark  of  resentment  that  Anne  should  be  busying 
herself  with  another  person  than  him  kindled.  What  was 
the  good  of  knowing  ?  he  thought ;  but  still  he  desired  to 
know.  That  he  would  not  dare  to  ask  her  to  let  him  see 
only  sharpened  his  desire.  He  made  a  great  noise  as  he 
put  the  china  away  on  the  dresser,  for  thus  he  managed  to 
assert  his  presence  and  his  personality.  Seeing  that  he 
would  have  to  go  out  to  the  post-box,  he  felt  grudging 
about  it.  The  thought  that  a  half-mile  walk  deserved  a 
sight  of  the  letter  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  mind,  but*  he 
managed  not  to  present  the  equation  to  himself  in  that 


STILL  LIFE  131 

shape.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  was 
being  hardly  treated. 

"  Morry,  you've  surely  finished.  Come  here  !  "  Anne's 
call  took  him  by  surprise.  He  had  to  justify  himself.  He 
wiped  down  an  already  clean  table,  and  folded  the  cloth 
which  had  been  better  hung  to  dry. 

"  Just  a  moment.  I'm  hanging  up  the  cloths,"  he  said, 
and  after  a  pause  entered. 

"  Would  you  like  to  read  it  ?  "  she  said. 

He  was  at  a  loss  to  reply.  "  What— the  letter  ?  "  He 
could  not  avoid  betraying  his  surprise.  "  No — o.  Why 
should  I  ?  " 

She  passed  it  across  the  table  to  him.  "  I  think  you  had 
better.  It's  our  letter,  after  all,  rather  than  mine." 

"  If  you  please,  I'd  rather  not,  really,"  he  said.  "  I  don't 
want  to." 

"  Perhaps  you're  right."  Then  she  said,  half  to  herself, 
"  It's  my  own  responsibility  anyhow." 

"  Oh,  no.    It's  not  that,"  he  put  in  anxiously. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  then  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know."  He  made  a  curious  little  gesture  with 
his  head,  as  though  he  tried  to  shake  off  something  that 
clung  to  him.  "  I  don't,"  he  protested. 

At  that  Anne  sealed  the  envelope.  "  It's  not  very  im- 
portant one  way  or  the  other,"  she  said.  "  And  there's  no 
great  hurry  about  sending  it.  It's  not  very  pleasant 
going  to  the  post  at  this  time  in  the  evening." 

"I'd  like  to  go,"  he  said  stubbornly.  "  Besides,  I  want 
to  send  a  letter  myself.  I  have  just  got  time  to  write  it." 

;'  To  whom  ?  " 

"  To  Dennis.  Don't  you  think  we  might  ask  him  down  ? " 
He  was  already  writing  at  the  table.  After  a  little  while  he 
stopped  to  remark  :  "  I  think  Dennis  likes  you  very  much. 
I  suppose  he  likes  me.  I  wonder  if  he  would  like  us  both  ?  " 

"  I  wonder.    Yes,  ask  him  down." 

During  his  absence,  Anne's  thought  was  turned  in- 
evitably to  the  afternoon.  In  the  few  minutes'  solitude 


132  STILL  LIFE 

she  could  detach  herself  and  consider.  But  not  even  yet 
had  the  sense  of  desolation,  of  sudden  abandonment,  com- 
pletely passed  away.  She  had  always  been  isolated,  since 
she  could  remember,  but  the  isolation  had  always  been  of 
her  own  seeking  and  creation.  To-day  she  had  been  flung 
off  by  eternity.  She  reconstructed  the  moment.  It  was 
in  outline  so  plain.  The  second  of  utter  surrender  to  their 
full  love,  the  instant  torment  of  self-consciousness  that  had 
flowed  from  him  to  her  immediately  and  stung  her  naked 
nerves,  his  agony  of  self-accusation.  It  was  that  which 
froze  her.  While  he  wrestled  with  himself  she  was  as 
nothing,  yet  he  was  the  cause  of  his  own  agony.  What  did 
that  matter  ?  He  should  have  the  courage  of  his  own 
desire.  Should,  should  ?  Why  should  he  ?  He  would  not 
be  himself.  Being  himself,  he  could  not.  It  was  some- 
thing new  to  him,  this  sudden  incandescence  of  love. 
New  ?  it  was  rather  as  though  he  had  passed  his  life  in 
blowing  cold  upon  his  own  flame  at  its  whitest.  Twenty- 
four  years.  A  boy.  Every  word  he  spoke,  every  gesture 
he  made  revealed  it.  Every  word  but  those,  every  gesture 
but  that.  He  became  old  in  a  moment  and  passed  as 
quickly  back  to  a  boy.  Was  it  her  fault  that  he  evaded 
her  ?  She  was  the  occasion.  She  should  come  nearer  to 
meet  him.  Somehow  she  must  come  closer  to  him  yet, 
anticipate  his  reactions.  Yes,  she  had  said  the  truth.  She 
did  not  give  utterly ;  something  of  herself  held  back 
frightened  him  as  it  were  a  judgment.  It  was  she  who 
failed,  not  he. 

Mere  words  !  she  had  performed  miracles  of  giving, 
opened  herself  so  wide  to  him  that  she  was  tired  of  giving  ; 
not  tired,  but  fearful  of  the  brutality  in  him,  that  was  never 
far  away.  She  would  give  to  the  man  and  find  the  child. 
Suddenly  she  seemed  to  understand. 

She  could  not  always  be  conscious.  Against  certain 
things  the  reaction  was  instant  and  unreasoned.  In  her 
life  so  much  had  been  lifted  out  of  instinct  into  conscious- 
ness, so  much  effort  expended  on  the  change,  that  what 


STILL  LIFE  133 

remained  was  irreducible.  It  was  an  unchangeable  condi- 
tion of  her  being.  If  she  gave  more,  the  whole  would  be 
play-acting.  If  she  offered  more  of  herself,  then  she  must 
harden  herself  against  the  wounds  he  would  inflict,  and 
hardened,  she  would  not  be  giving,  she  would  not  even  be 
herself.  For  a  little  while  she  thought  that  she  had  shirked 
her  own  conclusions,  but  over  her  thought  there  hung  the 
misty  assurance  that  there  were  no  conclusions.  Through 
the  mist  penetrated  the  feeling  that  she  had  failed  him,  be- 
yond which,  though  she  strove  to  weaken  it  by  the  thought 
that  it  had  been  born  of  her  thinking,  she  could  not  reach. 
Therefore  she  was  sad,  and  tender  to  Maurice  when  he 
entered  the  room  once  more. 

She  had  placed  a  low  stool  against  her  chair  before  the 
fire,  and  she  motioned  him  to  it.  First,  he  dropped  his 
chin  upon  his  hands  and  bent  forward  to  watch  the  fire, 
but  in  a  moment  he  leaned  his  head  sideways  upon  her  lap 
and  played  with  the  silver  buckle  of  her  shoe. 

"  The  latchet  of  whose  shoes,"  he  said  dreamily.  "  I 
am  not  worthy  .  .  .  Don't  say  '  no.'  I've  been  thinking 
about  us  on  my  way  back  to-night.  It  wasn't  Judas  who 
said  that  though,  was  it  ?  That  would  make  it  better 
still."  He  was  turned  about  now.  His  head  rested  on  his 
arms,  and  they  upon  her  lap.  "  How  I  betray  you.  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  go  on  doing  it  ?  " 

"  Betray  me.    How  ?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

"  All  kinds  of  ways.  More  than  I  know  even.  I  know 
you  expect  me  and  I'm  not  there,  time  after  time.  You 
know  what  I  mean.  You  must.  When  I  want  you  you  are 
always  there,  always." 

"  Always  ?  This  afternoon  ?  "  The  mournful  melody 
of  the  words  was  strange  to  him,  and  he  looked  up  at  her. 
Sad  and  tired,  tender  and  smiling — how  wonderful  she 
looked  ! 

"  Why  do  you  say  it  like  that  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.    "  I  don't  know." 

"  But  I  failed  this  afternoon.    The  one  thing  /  can't  for- 


134  STILL  LIFE 

get  is  the  way  I  knew.  It  was  like  a  revelation,  absolutely 
certain."  To  that  she  could  say  nothing.  He  might  under- 
stand, but  she  could  not  explain.  "  I  knew  something 
else,"  he  continued,  "  I  shall  always  depend  on  you." 

"  But  you  can't  always,  can  you  ?  Besides,  you  don't 
really  want  to.  Only  a  half  of  you  does." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  suppose  that's  right." 

"  It's  true— and  it's  right." 

:<  You  do  seem  to  know  a  lot  about  me,  Anne." 

"  Not  very  much." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  A  very  little.    Don't  worry  me."    She  smiled  at  him. 

"  As  much  as  I  know  about  myself  ?  " 

"  Perhaps.    I  don't  know." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  I  know  you  do.  More  than  I  know  about 
myself.  Tell  me." 

"  Perhaps.    How  can  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  do,"  he  said.    "  Was  I  really  worrying  ?  " 

"  Not  really.  .  .  .  But  how  could  I  answer  you  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  could  answer  you.    But  you  didn't  want  my 
answer,  you  wanted  your  own.    Shall  I  tell  you  what  you 
really  wanted  me  to  say  ?  " 
'  Yes,  please." 

"  You  wanted  me  to  say  that  I  knew  all  about  you. 
Isn't  that  true  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  to  think.  .  .  .  Perhaps.  .  .  .  Yes. 
.  .  .  Why  didn't  you  say  it  then  ?  You  might  as  well, 
mightn't  you  ?  " 

"  No.    You  see  it  wasn't  true." 

"  Not  really  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  and  shook  her  head  deliberately. 

"  I  wish  to  God  you  did.  I  wouldn't  mind  not  knowing 
myself  then,  you  see.  .  .  .  Oh,  Anne  darling  ..." 

The  evening  moved  naturally  to  its  close.  Naturally, 
without  hesitations,  he  went  to  her  room.  He  curled  up 
so  as  to  be  small  beside  her,  and  his  head  lay  in  the  warm 


STILL  LIFE  135 

comfort  of  her  breast.    Sleepy  soon,  he  emerged  with  one 
last  question : 

"  Did  you  ever  snuggle  up,  when  you  were  small  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  she  said.    It  was  not  her  word,  but  she  under- 
stood and  kissed  him. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DENNIS  BEAUCHAMP  was  thoroughgoing.  As  outwardly 
he  never  showed  surprise,  so  inwardly,  though  he  was 
alone  in  his  room  at  the  hospital,  he  refused  to  allow  that 
Temple's  letter  was  unexpected.  Propping  it  against  the 
coffee-pot  he  continued  to  drink,  and  read  the  letter  again. 

"  So  that's  all  right,"  he  said. 

But  he  felt  that  another  cubit  had  been  taken  from  his 
stature.  Suddenly,  Maurice  had  done  something,  quite 
definite.  Unmistakably  he  had  made  a  step.  Forward 
or  backward,  right  or  wrong,  did  not  matter.  He  had 
emerged  from  the  vague  background  of  desires  and  ideals 
and  committed  himself  to  an  action.  A  tinge  of  envious 
resentment  clouded  Dennis's  contemplation.  He  could 
not  help  accusing  himself,  and  his  self-directed  shafts  had 
a  keen,  particular  barb.  Maurice  had  done  something  that 
he  himself  might  have  done,  and  thus  had  closed  one 
possible  avenue  of  escape  for  him.  He  had  quite  as  good 
a  right  to  run  away  with  Anne  Cradock  as  Maurice,  a 
better  right,  for  he  understood  her  better.  She  was  clear 
before  him  as  she  had  been  in  her  drawing-room  on  the 
afternoon  three  days  ago,  and  as  the  picture  took  on  a 
sharper  reality,  he  thought  with  a  half-smile  that  he  hadn't 
any  very  considerable  right  to  her.  None  at  all,  in  fact. 
But  he  might  have  created  it.  The  idea  of  himself  as  the 
stern,  silent,  insistent  lover  quickly  engaged  him,  almost 
before  he  had  time  to  laugh  at  himself  for  being  ridiculous. 
Anne  Cradock  was  a  little  too  good  to  be  handled  in  that 
way.  She  would  see  through  it  and  laugh  before  he  could 
say  the  first  masterful  word.  Her  amused  smile  was  in- 
fectious. He  was  laughing  with  her  BOW. 


STILL  LIFE  137 

He  was  rather  grieved  with  things  in  general  because  he 
was  not  permitted  to  take  himself  seriously.  After  all, 
there  was  the  fact.  Anne  Cradock  had  gone  away  into  the 
country  with  Maurice,  because  she  pitied  him.  And  he  was 
to  be  pitied.  His  depressions,  his  insecurities,  were  over- 
whelming. Dennis  himself  had  felt  that  many  times. 
Nevertheless,  his  own  title  to  pity  was  at  least  equal  to 
Temple's.  For  a  moment  he  thought  that  he  might  have 
made  himself  as  convincing,  and  he  began  to  reproach  him- 
self for  having  neglected  an  opportunity.  But  no  sooner 
had  he  run  his  idea  a  little  way  than  a  vision  of  Anne 
Cradock  appeared  smiling  at  him  with  understanding 
amusement.  "  It's  no  use,  Dennis — another  orgy  of  self- 
pity."  Not  the  slightest  use,  he  hastened  to  agree. 

The  difference  was  that  he  was  older  than  Maurice.  But 
Anne  was  not  the  person  to  run  away  with  a  young  man 
just  because  he  was  young.  "  I  give  it  up,"  he  said  aloud. 
A  suspicion  entered  into  him  that  he  had  not  rightly  under- 
stood Maurice,  and  he  could  not  banish  it,  although  he  was 
certainly  not  prepared  to  grant  that  it  even  might  be  true. 
It  was  very  fortunate  that  he  had  been  invited  down,  for 
now  he  was  urgent  to  see  Maurice  and  to  search  him  out. 
With  some  surprise  he  recollected  that  Anne  would  be 
there  too.  Maurice  had  been  isolated  in  his  thought  till 
then.  Yes,  he  wanted  to  see  them  very  much  indeed. 

A  clamorous  bell  called  him  away  for  a  few  minutes  to 
consult  with  a  fellow  house-surgeon.  Clear,  with  an  im- 
pressive conviction,  he  soon  persuaded  Richards  to  the 
opposite  of  his  formed  opinion,  and  Richards  admired  him 
for  it. 

"  By  Jove,  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"  Nor  I,  till  now,"  said  Dennis. 

"  Is  that  so,  really  ?  " 

;'  The  fact.  Look  here,  Richards.  Do  you  mind  if  you 
let  me  have  the  next  free  week-end  ?  It's  yours  really,  I 
know.  But  I  very  much  want  to  see  a  friend,  and  I  may 
not  have  another  opportunity.  Let's  see.  To-day's  Tues- 


138  STILL  LIFE 

day.    I'll  do  your  night  turn  for  the  rest  of  the  week  if  it 
will  be  any  good  to  you." 

Richards  was  very  pleased  to  be  asked.  Dennis  hardly 
ever  wanted  an  extra  week-end,  while  he  was  always  ask- 
ing Dennis  to  change. 

"  Of  course.  Only  too  pleased.  But  why  do  the  night 
duty  ?  I'm  all  right.  . .  .  But  if  you  take  my  turn  on  Thurs- 
day, I'd  be  very  much  obliged." 

"  Certainly.  Thanks  very  much.  I  haven't  quite 
finished  my  breakfast."  He  pulled  out  his  watch.  "  Only 
twenty  minutes  before  that  lecture.  I  must  be  off.  Good- 
bye." 

He  turned  over  the  pages  of  a  book  of  lecture  notes.  His 
were  held  to  be  very  brilliant  lectures,  and  he  idly  wondered 
whether  the  world  had  a  pitiful  capacity  for  self-deception. 
The  mathematical  regularity  of  his  handwriting  was  appro- 
priate to  the  utter  remoteness  of  the  matter  of  his  analysis. 
It  was  so  indifferent  to  him  that  its  appeal  to  his  medical 
contemporaries  was  unintelligilbe.  He  speculated  whether 
the  bubble  of  his  reputation  would  suddenly  burst.  At 
all  times  during  the  last  three  years  the  idea  had  haunted 
him,  but  that  consummation  was,  he  suspected,  past 
hoping  for.  The  stuff  was  right,  for  it  had  been  written 
at  a  time  when  he  had  been  interested  to  make  it  right. 
What  baffled  him  was  that  the  lectures  could  be  important 
to  anybody  else,  they  were  so  unimportant  to  him. 

Nevertheless,  as  the  time  for  the  class  approached,  an 
indefinable  unction  descended  upon  him,  anticipating  his 
controlled  and  unconcerned  attitudes  at  the  lectern.  There 
was  an  insidious  enjoyment  to  be  derived  from  his  un- 
doubted efficiency  ex  cathedra,  and  the  satisfaction  of 
standing  before  an  audience  intent  upon  his  every  word 
warmed  him,  although  he  would  not  acknowledge  it  to 
himself.  Instead,  he  preferred  to  insist  upon  the  base 
motives  which  prompted  their  attention,  their  hopes  of 
passing  sterile  examinations  for  useless  ends.  Of  course 
there  was  something  in  it  all.  Occasionally  he  felt  that 


STILL  LIFE  139 

himself,  but  that  any  member  of  his  audience  should  be 
concerned  with  the  realities  which  here  dimly  foreshadowed 
in  the  obscurer  physiological  facts  with  which  he  dealt  he 
refused  to  allow.  It  would  savour  too  much  of  a  criticism 
upon  himself. 

He  had  been  speaking  a  long  while  on  the  functions  of 
the  optic  nerve.  In  front  of  him  was  one  row  after  another 
of  bended  heads,  the  noise  of  many  pens.  In  the  attitude 
interest  seemed  to  have  been  concentrated  into  indifference. 
A  puff  of  anger  and  disgust  swept  into  him. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  you  must  remember  that  all  I 
have  been  saying  is  only  an  approximation  to  a  truth 
which  cannot  be  conveyed  in  such  terms  as  these.  It 
would  be  more  correct  and  more  honest  if  I  were  to  acknow- 
ledge here  and  now  that  this  approach,  the  normal  medical 
approach,  to  psychology  is  only  a  pis-aller.  One  forgets 
so  soon  in  the  excitement  of  research — I  myself  so  soon 
forget — that  the  clumsy  word  psychology  has  degraded 
the  object  of  which  it  professes  to  be  the  science.  It  is  like 
a  black  cloud  poured  about  the  reality,  which  is  the  soul. 
We  explain  and  explain,  we  spend  our  skill  in  mapping  out 
the  ducts  and  channels  of  sensation  in  the  human  body — 
and  what  more  do  we  know  of  the  soul  ?  The  thing  eludes 
the  finger  of  science  from  the  beginning."  He  looked  up 
from  his  desk  to  the  same  expanse  of  bended  heads,  and 
irritation  seized  him.  "  Please  do  not  take  this  down.  It 
will  be  of  no  practical  use  to  you."  A  malicious  desire  to 
destroy  the  construction  which  he  had  so  laboriously  built 
up  for  them  urged  him  on. 

"  We  speak  of  a  sensation  being  communicated  along  a 
nerve  fibre.  We  point  out  these  nerve  fibres  on  a  chart, 
and  follow  them  out  in  the  dissecting-room.  We  imagine 
we  have  said  something  of  account  concerning  them.  What 
is  the  fact  of  the  matter  ?  By  our  use  of  the  word  sensa- 
tion we  have  begged  the  whole  question.  What  is  a  sensa- 
tion but  something  which  has  been  present  to  our  con- 
sciousiiecs  ?  How  can  this  something  be  communicated 


140  STILL  LIFE 

along  a  nerve-fibre  ?  An  electrical  current  passes  along  a 
wire  until  it  arrives  at  a  point  where  the  wire  is  so  thin  that 
it  becomes  incandescent,  and  we  are  aware  of  the  presence 
of  the  electrical  current.  That  is  at  least  intelligible.  But 
it  is  the  grossest  deception  when  we  imagine  that  sensation 
can  be  similarly  explained.  At  one  end  of  the  wire  is  the 
electrical  current,  at  the  other  end  still  electrical  current. 
At  one  end  of  the  nerve-fibre  is  some  material  stimulus,  at 
the  other  end  a  sensation,  painful  or  pleasant.  And  what 
is  a  sensation  ?  Something  at  any  rate  of  which  we  are 
conscious,  for  otherwise  it  could  not  be.  A  miracle  has 
occurred.  Material  shock  has  been  communicated,  and  it 
ends  in  consciousness  of  material  shock.  Between  these 
two  things  is  an  abyss.  Physiology  is  so  lucid  concerning 
the  mechanism  of  sensation  only  because  it  takes  account 
of  nothing  but  mechanism.  In  other  words,  it  ignores 
entirely  the  abyss  between  stimulus  and  consciousness  of 
stimulus.  What  kind  of  an  explanation  can  that  be  where 
there  is  no  conception  of  the  thing  to  be  explained  ?  It  is 
a  delusion. 

"  It  is  easy  to  leave  the  problem  on  one  side  and  to  say  we 
cannot  afford  to  worry  about  that.  There  is  the  fact  any- 
how. We  have  bodies  and  we  have  consciousness.  If  it  is 
no  use  trying  to  explain  the  connection,  you  will  say  for 
Heaven's  sake  let  us  get  on  with  something  tangible.  That 
is  what  I  have  been  trying  to  do  here.  But  the  trouble  is 
that  once  you  approach  the  question  from  the  other  side 
the  impossibility  of  finding  a  solution  to  it  is  overwhelming. 
Of  course  for  a  great  part  of  the  day,  we  do  not  worry  about 
it.  We  just  accept  the  fact  that  we  are  conscious  beings 
and  are  grateful.  Then  we  are  happy  and  to  be  envied,  for 
the  problem  does  not  exist ;  in  the  deepest  sense  of  the 
words,  it  does  not  exist.  That  is  the  way  of  health.  Un- 
fortunately we  have  begun  to  be  self-conscious.  We  desire 
to  know  things  because  we  desire  the  truth,  and  since 
medical  knowledge,  one-sided  and  blind  as  much  of  it  may 
be,  is  nevertheless  knowledge,  it  concerns  us  deeply  to 


STILL  LIFE  141 

know  what  manner  of  truth  it  is  at  which  we  may  hope  to 
arrive  by  this  road.  We  aim  at  truth  ;  we  are  doomed  to 
arrive  at  something  which  is  at  once  untrue  and  true, 
accurate  and  false.  It  is  as  though  we  should  endeavour 
to  appreciate 

4  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  the  memory  of  things  past ' 

by  reading  it  in  a  German  translation.  There  is  no 
dictionary  of  the  spirit  in  which  sign  and  meaning  corre- 
spond each  to  each.  It  is  given  to  us  as  a  whole  and  must 
be  apprehended  as  a  whole. 

"  That  is  why  the  dualism  of  the  living  being  has  no 
problem  for  us,  so  long  as  we  do  not  worry  about  it.  Having 
worried  about  it,  I  can  forget  it  when  I  lie  on  my  back  in 
the  grass.  I  am  easily  conscious  of  myself  as  a  living  indi- 
vidual. The  old  problem  has  disappeared.  Immediately 
a  new  distracts  me.  I  am  set  apart  in  a  surrounding 
universe  which  rejects  me,  and  to  which  I  cannot  reach. 
In  place  of  the  old  abyss  a  new  and  greater  one.  Perhaps 
you  have  not  felt  that.  I  am  sure  that  you  will  at  one  time 
or  another  be  thrown  back  absolutely  upon  yourselves,  and 
then  you  will  be  oppressed  by  a  question  more  profound 
than  any  that  medical  science  or  even  medical  psychology 
will  ever  set  to  you." 

He  had  not  been  carried  away,  and  a  nice  appreciation 
of  the  appropriate  pause  did  not  wholly  desert  him.  "  I 
am  afraid  that  I  have  allowed  myself  to  be  taken  outside 
my  subject.  I  do  not  think  that  it  is  worth  while  to  talk 
about  a  form  of  metaphysical  depression  in  a  lecture  upon 
the  optic  nerve.  In  fact  I  cannot  see  that  it  will  be  of  any 
use  at  all  to  you — except  perhaps  those  of  you  who  are 
interested  in  mental  pathology." 

As  he  hurried  out  of  the  room  he  was  not  unpleasantly 
aware  of  a  general  mystification.  He  had  meant  to  do 
something  rather  extraordinary  though  he  had  not  done  it 
deliberately.  It  gave  some  relief  to  his  mood  of  the  morn- 


142  STILL  LIFE 

ing.  He  desired  more.  Looking  at  his  memorandum  he 
was  glad  to  find  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  do  until 
the  afternoon,  and  he  hurried  outside.  A  wet  wind  blew 
the  rain  in  white  spray  upon  the  hospital  steps.  He  ran 
back  to  fetch  a  raincoat,  going  deviously  to  his  room  in 
order  to  avoid  any  curious  questions  from  his  friends  upon 
the  finale  of  his  lecture.  He  might  be  explosive. 

His  breakfast  things  were  still  upon  the  table,  and 
leaning  against  the  coffee-pot  was  Temple's  letter.  It 
gave  him  a  clear  idea  for  action  that  morning,  and  he  was 
titillated  by  a  half-malicious  pleasure  at  the  thought  of 
going  to  see  Cradock.  Anxious  to  be  certain  of  finding 
him,  he  called  him  up  on  the  lobby  telephone.  Cradock 
was  at  the  office. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you  very  much.  Let's  lunch  together, 
somewhere  where  we  can  talk." 

"  Why,  is  there  anything  the  matter  ?  "  answered  Dennis 
with  native  diplomacy. 

"  No-o.  Well,  yes.  It's  about  Anne.  A  bad  business. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you.  You'll  come  to  the  club.  I'll  tell 
you  about  it." 

"  Very  well,  I'll  be  there." 

"  How  I  hate  London,"  he  said  as  he  descended  the 
great  steps,  hunching  up  his  shoulders,  burying  his  face  in 
his  coat  collar,  so  that  he  might  be  a  small  target  to  the 
rain  that  drove  against  him,  while  the  big  drops  from  the 
avenue  of  stubborn  plane  trees  fell  with  a  heavy  plop 
upon  his  shoulders.  When  he  had  leaped  on  to  a  bus 
under  the  dark  and  dirty  station  arches,  his  hatred  did  not 
prevent  him  from  watching  with  interest  the  unremitting 
hail  and  farewell  of  the  passengers.  He  was  more  im- 
patient than  the  conductor  to  be  onwards.  With  him  he 
seemed  to  tug  violently  at  the  bell-pull  before  the  pas- 
sengers had  descended.  He  raged  against  the  city  traffic 
which  held  them  prisoners.  The  sharp  ting-a-ting  of  the 
agitated  bell  found  a  responsive  echo  in  him.  Slowly  sub- 
siding into  apathy,  he  began  to  be  aware  that  some  one 


STILL  LIFE  143 

was  talking  close  beside  him.  He  turned  away  from  the 
door,  yet  did  not  commit  himself  to  a  point-blank  stare. 
It  was  a  little  woman  in  worn  and  rain-spotted  black, 
holding  an  umbrella  in  a  nervous  hand  covered  with  thin 
black  cotton  gloves.  Stealthily  he  worked  upwards  towards 
her  face.  Beady,  half-animal  eyes,  a  square-set  chin  and 
mouth  deeply  lined  and  angular,  but  softened  with  a 
certain  timid  tenderness.  She  was  but  half  seated  as 
though  impatient  to  leave  the  omnibus. 

Dennis  listened  to  what  she  was  saying,  and  a  little 
uneasy  because  he  could  not  be  sure  whether  she  was 
already  addressing  herself  to  him.  With  his  usual  appre- 
hension he  looked  distances,  and  listened. 

"  Five  million  of  'em  every  year.  There's  Yerkes.  He 
had  millions  of  money,  millions.  And  he  died  five  years 
back,  dead.  And  what  good  did  his  money  do  him  ?  Oh, 
yes,  it's  all  very  well  to  have  gold  and  palaces,  all  very 
well,  but  will  it  save  you  a  moment  or  turn  it  away  ? 
No!" 

The  word  was  fired  out  with  a  report  that  all  the  omnibus 
could  hear.  A  young  man  with  large  restless  hands  and  a 
top-hat  pushed  commercially  to  the  back  of  his  head 
tittered,  and  glanced  from  side  to  side  for  support.  A 
woman  in  the  corner,  with  two  sharply  defined  circles  of 
red  on  her  cheeks,  holding  a  portfolio  in  her  hand,  leaned 
her  chin  upon  her  umbrella  and  looked  fixedly  with  the 
expression  of  a  communicant  soul  at  the  little  lady  in 
black.  Dennis,  deeply  perturbed  by  a  vicarious  embarrass- 
ment, gazed  rigidly  at  the  conductor. 

Abruptly  she  burst  into  a  long  list  of  names  of  cities. 
Lima,  he  heard,  and  Bahia  and  Buenos  Ayres.  "  There's 
lots  of  money  there,"  she  said,  "  but  I've  seen  'em  die  like 
flies."  Then  she  spoke,  fluent  with  passion,  a  liquid 
gasping  language  that  he  judged  to  be  Spanish.  Dennis 
was  almost  proud  of  having  distinguished  it.  Finally  in  a 
tone  of  impotent  despair  some  quick  muttered  French,  of 
which  he  was  not  enough  alert  to  catch  the  words,  save  the 


144  STILL  LIFE 

final  sentence,  "  Et  de  mener  une  vie  ton jours  comme  ca, 
toujours  pareille,  toujours"  He  was  impelled  to  look 
at  her  with  intent,  to  show  that  he  had  understood 
and  appreciated.  The  little  lady  was  staring  out  of 
the  window,  unconscious  of  him,  holding  her  umbrella 
tight  in  her  black  gloved  hand,  shifting  uneasily  upon  her 
seat.  He  had  hardly  a  moment  to  watch  her  lips  move 
with  inaudible  speech,  before  she  had  descended  after  a 
hesitation  on  the  footboard,  to  the  pavement. 

Speculations  as  to  what  she  might  be,  thenceforward 
engaged  him.  He  found  himself  incessantly  repeating  her 
final  phrase,  "  Et  de  mener  une  vie  toujours  comme  ca, 
toujours  pareille,  toujours."  A  melancholy  lilt  in  the 
sentence  fascinated  him,  and  while  he  muttered  it  he 
forgot  its  meaning.  His  turn,  too,  came  to  descend.  As  he 
stood  on  the  footboard  the  sudden  thought  came  to  him 
that  it  was  appropriate  to  himself,  and  he  stood  on  the 
kerb  immobile,  afflicted  by  doubts.  The  woman  might 
have  spoken  to  him  with  purpose. 

A  newsboy  running  in  the  gutter  brushed  against  him 
and  rushed  on  crying  his  special  edition.  "  What  the 
devil  .  .  ."  said  Dennis.  He  felt  that  he  towered  above, 
aloof  from  the  canaille.  What  did  they  know  about  the 
things  that  troubled  him  ?  Just  a  few  sparks  struck  out 
of  the  lower  darkness,  one  or  two  scattered  points  of  fitful 
incandescence,  aware  of  each  for  a  moment  and  gone  into 
the  nothingness  whence  they  came.  God,  what  a  life  ! 
Toujours  pareille,  toujours.  Envy  and  resentment  against 
Maurice  flamed  in  him.  They  had  done  something  apart 
from  him.  They  had  struck  out  a  spark.  But  it  could  not 
burn  long,  and  when  it  sank,  what  then  ?  He  feasted  on 
a  vivid  picture  of  their  disillusionment.  It  would  break 
Maurice,  surely.  Then  he  hated  himself.  He  could  not 
afford  to  lose  a  soul.  But  he  hated  Maurice,  too,  for  going 
apart,  worlds  away.  And  Anne  ?  He  could  not  imagine 
her  broken.  It  was  too  hard  to  draw  a  line  about  her,  to 
measure  her  capacities  and  find  their  breaking  strain.  In 


STILL  LIFE  145 

the  future  he  saw  her  as  she  had  been  before,  always  with 
some  power  in  reserve,  a  self  naturally  ungiven,  of  which 
she  could  not  be  prodigal.  What  failed  him  was  a  vision 
of  them  together.  Regarding  Anne,  he  saw  that  nothing 
would  end  save  by  her  deliberate  choice.  Regarding 
Maurice,  he  saw  him  as  he  would  be  weakened  and  thrown 
down  by  some  inward  stress.  Dennis  envied  him  even  for 
that,  and  was  malicious  against  him. 

Well,  it  was  no  use  to  remain  there.  He  greeted  the 
prospect  of  talking  to  Cradock  with  satisfaction.  How  he 
would  commiserate  with  him  !  A  sudden  fancy  that  the 
little  woman  in  black  was  close  behind  him  made  him 
turn  sharply  about.  He  could  see  her  nowhere.  He  was 
rather  frightened  of  her,  but  the  fact  that  he  could  not  see 
her  made  him  wish  to  discover  her.  She  might  have  had 
something  else  to  tell  him.  Instead  of  hurrying  as  he  had 
intended  he  strolled  slowly  along  to  Cradock's  club,  in  the 
vague  hope  that  even  yet  she  might  touch  him  on  the  arm. 

The  big  form  and  the  deep  voice  of  Cradock  took  Dennis 
into  their  keeping.  It  was  pleasant  to  feel  that  Cradock 
was  really  glad  to  see  him,  but  Dennis  had  a  habit  of 
concealing  such  things,  and  he  sat  with  apparent  detach- 
ment listening  to  Cradock.  An  excited  wonder  whether 
Cradock  was  really  going  to  say  something  that  came 
from  his  depths  was  chastened  and  chilled  by  the  in- 
ordinate care  which  he  devoted  to  the  preliminaries  of 
lunch.  Impatience  nearly  made  Dennis  forget  that  he 
was  playing  the  part  of  ignorance.  Remembering,  he 
devoted  a  sudden  energy  to  discussing  a  play  of  which 
he  had  read  Cradock's  criticism. 

"  You're  very  optimistic  about  the  theatre  lately,  aren't 
you,  Cradock  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes.  I  suppose  I  am.  There's  a  good  deal  of 
good  stuff  being  written.  Enough  to  be  optimistic  about. 
Not  but  what  it's  my  business  to  be." 

"  I  think  there  are  a  good  many  decent  plays,  too.  But 
I  can't  get  away  from  the  fact  that  they  are  only  decent 


146  STILL  LIFE 

after  all.     They're  good  enough,  but  they  aren't  good  in 
the  right  way.    They're  all  one-sided." 

"  But  they  can't  all  be.  Think  of  the  extraordinary 
variety,  from  the  Irish  peasant  play  to  Bernard  Shaw." 

"  And  nothing  in  between.  That's  exactly  my  point. 
One's  the  unconscious  kind.  The  other  the  self-conscious. 
There  ought  to  be  something  in  between.  One's  all  back- 
ground ;  the  other  hasn't  any  background  at  all.  The 
result  is  that  neither  kind  is  true.  Do  you  see  what  I 
mean  ?  " 

In  spite  of  the  conviction  of  his  own  independence, 
Cradock  was  always  eager  to  catch  an  idea  from  Dennis. 
He  pressed  for  further  definition. 

Dennis  did  not  know  whether  he  was  serious  or  not.  He 
had  begun  deliberately  to  say  something,  but  now  he  had 
a  real  interest  in  the  argument. 

"  Well,  take  the  social  comedy  or  the  discursive  kind  of 
play.  The  real  condition  of  its  being  is  that  everybody 
should  be  acutely  self-conscious.  That  is  all  very  well, 
but  the  fact  is  that  people  aren't.  Genuine  self-conscious- 
ness is  quite  rare,  and  even  with  people  who  have  cultivated 
it — some  do  so  naturally — there's  any  amount  of  room 
outside.  More  than  half  the  time  they're  unconscious  or 
semi-conscious.  The  peasant  variety  simply  runs  the 
unconscious  to  death.  Destiny  and  the  powers  beyond 
become  quite  massive.  They  monopolise  the  stage.  And 
that's  not  true  either.  People  that  are  worth  writing  plays 
about  swing  from  one  into  the  other  in  a  curious  kind  of 
way.  Whether  it's  the  modern  consciousness  or  not  I 
can't  say.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  if  we're  to  have  a 
really  good  play,  we  must  have  the  two  things  in  a  natural 
sequence,  not  jerked  one  on  top  of  the  other  in  the  same 
person,  and  certainly  not  just  symbolised  by  Destiny  and 
the  raging  elements  outside  and  the  puny  human  tragedy 
within  as  the  old  people  did.  No  doubt  they  had  the 
right  idea  for  their  time.  You  can  read  and  enjoy  them 
now,  if  you  want  any  proof  that  they  must  have  been  right 


STILL  LIFE  147 

enough.  But  now  we  need  a  different  kind  of  thing,  a 
blend  of  the  unconscious  and  the  self-conscious  in  the 
same  person. 

"  I  rather  think  this  man,  Tchekhov,  has  something  of 
what  I  mean.  He's  really  very  significant, — now  I  come 
to  think  of  it.  He  uses  the  elements,  and  outside  the 
window  right  enough,  but  only  to  echo  the  states  of  mind 
of  his  people.  A  kind  of  sounding  board  for  the  small  voice 
of  the  unconscious  within  them.  He  gets  away  from  the 
tyranny  of  nature  with  a  capital  N.  We  don't  feel  that 
kind  of  tyranny  nowadays.  Instead  we  have  any  amount 
of  tyrannical  motions  from  within.  Why,  I  ended  up  a 
lecture  on  the  optic  nerve  this  morning  with  a  rhapsody 
on  the  animida  vagula  and  the  relations  of  man  to  the 
Universe.  Quite  enough  to  get  me  the  sack,  I  imagine. 
Perhaps  when  I  get  back  I  shall  find  that  they  have  given 
it  me." 

Cradock  paused  before  replying.  "  That's  very  interest- 
ing." Then  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  his  own  thoughts, 
oblivious  of  Dennis.  Dennis  felt  that  he  was  about  to 
deliver  himself,  and  saw  that  he  had  without  intention, 
given  him  an  obvious  lead.  He  knew  exactly  how  Cradock 
would  begin  now.  Cradock  began  quite  differently. 

"  Anne's  gone  off  with  young  Temple." 

"  Is  that  true  ?  "  said  Dennis.  He  had  a  tight  rein  on 
himself,  and  knew  with  relief  that  Cradock  would  not 
expect  him  to  evince  any  violent  surprise. 

"  Read  the  letter."  With  his  hand  in  his  breast-pocket 
Cradock  hesitated.  A  feeling  that  he  ought  not  show  it  to 
anybody  restrained  him  for  a  moment.  He  justified  him- 
self against  it  as  he  handed  it  to  Dennis.  "  You're  the 
only  person  who  will  see  it." 

Dennis  did  not  want  particularly  to  read  it.  It  was 
Anne's  after  all.  But  he  reflected  that  Anne  wouldn't 
mind.  More  important  was  the  thought  that  he  did  not 
want  to  share  any  secret  with  Cradock.  He  had  enough 
to  do  with  his  own.  Nevertheless,  he  read  : 


148  STILL  LIFE 

"DEAK  JIM, 

"I  have  gone  away  with  Maurice  Temple.  You 
will  find  that  rather  difficult  to  understand,  and  I  should 
find  it  hard  to  explain  to  you,  for  the  reason  that  it  is 
quite  a  simple  thing.  I  know  this  will  hurt  you,  but  not 
very  much,  really.  I  hope  you  won't  magnify  it,  because 
that  would  do  no  good,  and  only  turn  me  against  you.  I 
don't  want  to  be  against  you  at  all. 

"  And  you  mustn't  think,  perhaps  you  wouldn't  in  any 
case,  that  you  have  failed  me.  You  haven't.  Nor  have  I 
failed  you.  I  decided  quite  easily  and  quite  deliberately 
about  you.  Now  that  I  look  back  upon  it  I  see  that  I 
wasn't  rash  or  impulsive  or  unfair  in  leaving  you.  I  knew 
that  at  the  time.  But  I  thought  I  had  better  tell  you 
plainly  that  I  am  quite  certain  of  myself. 

"  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  I  would  like  to  tell  you 
why.  But,  as  I  said  before,  it  would  be  difficult,  and  it 
would  take  a  long  time  and  many  words  to  make  it  per- 
fectly plain  to  you  ;  and  there  would  be  the  risk  that  you 
might  misunderstand  something  that  I  said  and  imagine 
that  this  was  an  aberration  after  all.  I  should  resent  that. 
I  would  much  prefer  to  have  no  resentment  at  all  against 
you.  Therefore,  though  I  have  put  my  address  plainly 
on  the  top  of  this  letter,  I  would  rather  that  you  did  not 
at  any  time  come  here  to  see  me  unless  I  were  to  ask  you 
specially.  You  must  forgive  me  if  I  credit  you  with 
thoughts  that  you  never  have  had  and  never  will  have. 
I  don't  think  it's  likely.  But  there  is  the  chance  that  this 
affair  may  affect  a  Jim  that  I  don't  know.  I  rely  on  you 
to  do  what  I  ask. 

"  You  had  better  tell  people  quite  frankly  about  it,  but 
don't  tell  more  than  is  really  necessary.  I'm  quite  ready 
to  face  the  music,  but  I  don't  see  why  it  should  be  a 
brass-band. 

"  I  wish  you  would  do  one  thing  for  me, — gather  to- 
gether all  my  own  things  and  send  them  to  me  as  quickly 
as  you  can.  You  will  know  generally  what  I  mean — not 


STILL  LIFE  149 

the  furniture.  Particularly,  don't  forget  the  music  that 
is  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the  photograph  of  my  mother 
and  the  ivory  umbrella  which  are  in  the  panel-drawer  of 
my  desk. 

"  One  thing  more.  You  might  be  prompted  to  get 
Maurice  some  more  work  from  the  office.  Please  be  careful 
not  to  do  this.  It  would  only  hurt.  Besides,  it's  not 
necessary  at  all.  You  know  that  I  have  enough  to  keep 
both  of  us  in  the  country. 

ANNE." 

"  P.S. — If  you  are  still  uncertain  or  unsatisfied  about  me, 
see  Dennis." 

The  letter  seemed  so  natural  and  inevitable  to  Dennis 
that  the  postscript  did  not  surprise  him.  "  H'm,"  he 
mused,  "  how  like  her.  ...  I  mean  it  seems  to  be  like 
her.  It's  a  good  letter." 

Cradock  did  not  know  how  to  take  Dennis's  remark. 
It  seemed  to  leave  him,  his  feelings,  out  of  all  account ; 
and  instantly  he  began  to  manufacture  some  profound 
affections.  But  after  all  he  had  some  part  in  the  letter. 
It  was  a  kind  of  praise  to  him. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  he  said. 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

Cradock  just  nodded  slowly  from  side  to  side.  "  I  don't 
know.  That's  really  why  I  wanted  to  see  you."  A 
momentary  twinge  of  pity  stirred  Dennis,  as  he  watched 
him.  Cradock  looked  so  big  and  was  so  helpless,  nodding 
there.  Quickly  it  passed  into  a  revulsion  that  the  man 
was  unable  to  cope  with  his  most  vital  concerns.  How 
right  Anne  had  been,  how  invincibly  right !  He  had  never 
seen  clearly  through  Cradock's  appearance  of  strength 
before,  though  he  had  suspected  the  weakness  that  now 
repelled  him. 

"  Oh,  you  can't  do  anything,"  he  said  shortly. 

Even  that  did  not  sting  Cradock  to  activity.  "  No,  I 
suppose  not.  ...  I  suppose  not  .  .  .  but  ..." 


150  STILL  LIFE 

"  But  what  ?  " 

"  She's  taken  something  of  me  away.  I  feel — I  don't 
know  how  to  explain — numb.  I  don't  know.  She  ought 
not  to  have  done  it.  I  mean  she  should  have  done  it 
before.  ...  I  had  no  idea." 

"  One  never  has." 

"No  ...  that's  right." 

Dennis  was  hating  Cradock  for  his  impotence. 

"  That  letter's  final.  I  never  read  anything  so  absolutely 
detached.  It's  the  kind  of  thing  she  never  would  go  back 
on.  She  would  never  want  to.  You  feel  that,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  a  way,  but  there's  something  .  .  ." 

Dennis  listened  grimly. 

"  I  can't  just  take  it  lying  down,  can  I  ?  "  said  Cradock. 

"  Why,  what  else  can  you  do  ?  " 

"  It's  not  that  I  can  do  anything  else.  She's  shut  that 
out  pretty  effectually,  hasn't  she  ?  "  He  laughed  miser- 
ably. 

Why  did  he  ask  these  silly  questions  ?  Dennis  nodded. 
"  WTell  what  ?  "  he  insisted. 

"  I  must  do  something,  anyhow." 

"  Why  must  you  ?  That's  a  mere  convention — rotten 
sentimentality." 

At  last  Cradock  responded.  "  Well,  I've  got  to  answer 
her  letter  for  one  thing,"  he  said,  with  a  shade  of  vicious- 
ness. 

"  Oh,  is  that  what  you  meant.  I  thought  you  meant 
some  definite  action." 

"  Perhaps  I  did.  .  .  .  What  then  .  .  .  ?  "  He  asked 
sullenly. 

"  Only  that  there's  nothing  to  do.  You  can't  get  a 
hold  anywhere.  It's  complete,  foursquare.  There's  no 
place  for  a  grip.  Why  anything  that  you  could  do  would 
only  seem  a  kind  of  petulance.  What's  the  good  of  putting 
her  off  you  completely  ?  It's  something  that  she  respects 
you.  Yes,  it  is.  I  should  be  grateful  enough." 

"  Would  you,  honestly  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  151 

"  Yes,  honestly." 

"  It's  not  her  I'm  doubtful  about.  She's  all  right.  I 
can't  get  over  her  letter,  anyway.  That's  final,  yes,  it  is 
like  her."  He  did  not  believe  what  he  was  saying,  but  he 
was  anxious  to  be  thought  worthy. 

"  But  why  did  she  go  away  with  him  ?  "  Dennis  had 
been  waiting  for  it.  This  time  he  was  not  going  to  put 
Cradock  off  by  an  obvious  antagonism.  He  wanted  to 
know  what  he  would  say,  to  have  him  more  deeply  con- 
victed out  of  his  own  mouth.  He  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  Probably  we  don't  know 
Temple.  He's  not  so  very  transparent,  perhaps." 

It  was  the  opportunity  for  Cradock's  superior  know- 
ledge. "  He's  only  a  boy.  I  know  him.  Concerned  with 
all  manner  of  things.  All  the  kinds  of  problems  that 
worried  me  at  his  age, — you  too  probably.  He's  just  young, 
young  all  over.  All  enthusiasms  and  depressions.  What's 
Anne  going  to  do  when  he  gets  out  of  it  ?  He's  sure  to." 

"  I  shouldn't  worry  about  that  if  I  were  you,"  Dennis 
answered,  with  a  deceptive  quietness.  "  That's  Anne's 
affair." 

"  And  mine.    I  can't  help  worrying  about  it." 

"  What  is  there  to  worry  about,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  What's  she  going  to  do  when  it's  all  over  ?  She's  too 
old  to  be  left  by  a  boy." 

God,  how  he  hated  Cradock  !  His  rotten  mean  pride, 
pricked  to  a  cheap  jealousy,  and  i/urning  into  slobbering 
hypocritical  pity,  how  he  despised  him  for  it !  He  looked 
up  into  Cradock's  eyes  :  they  glowed  with  the  triumph  of 
a  cheap  debate. 

"  I  don't  think  Anne's  so  very  old.  Thirty-two  isn't 
old.  That  wasn't  an  old  letter.  Don't  you  feel  that  it's 
ridiculous  to  concern  ourselves  with  what  is  going  to 
happen  to  her  ?  I  wish  I  was  as  sure  of  myself.  Besides  " 
— he  was  impelled  by  his  animosity  to  make  a  reluctant 
addition — "  if  Temple  is  a  boy — he's  twenty-four  anyhow 
— it  doesn't  follow  he's  a  boy  as  you  and  I  were.  I  don't 


152  STILL  LIFE 

see  any  reason  why  he  should  get  through  it  as  you  say. 
To  take  away  from  him  only  means  that  Anne's  made  a 
big  mistake.  There's  not  much  of  that  in  her  letter,  is 
there  ?  I  don't  feel  it  at  any  rate." 

"  There's  something  in  that."  Dennis  wondered  when 
Cradock  would  begin  to  hate  him.  He  could  hardly  help 
feeling  the  spirit  of  his  remarks.  Dennis  did  not  care. 

Cradock  collapsed  into  silence.  His  indignation  and 
his  pity  were  such  that  they  depended  upon  finding  a 
partner  to  continue  to  be.  Finding  none,  they  were  not ; 
and  Cradock  who  had  for  a  while  been  voluble  and 
expectant  became  listless  again. 

"Well,"  he  broke  out  after  a  while,  "we  haven't 
reached  much  of  a  conclusion,  have  we  ?  " 

It  was  the  same  mood  that  had  first  excited  his  hostility, 
but  now,  by  contrast  to  his  recent  outbursts,  it  moved 
Dennis  to  pity,  almost  to  sympathy.  The  big  man  so 
plainly  depended  upon  him,  that  a  kind  of  flattered  pride 
moved  him  to  speak  comfortable  words.  The  impulse 
had  been  so  suddenly  changed  and  had  so  little  reality  in 
it,  that  the  search  for  sympathetic  speech  was  very 
deliberate. 

"  It's  rotten — for  you.  I'd  like  to  do  something  to  help 
you,  but  what  is  there  to  do  ?  You  can  see  as  well  as  I 
can,  much  better,  that  the  thing  is  finished,  for  the  present. 
It's  hard  on  you,  if  you  like.  It  is  certainly.  But  then 
things  are  like  that."  His  words  were  quite  empty.  They 
seemed  to  have  been  recorded  as  he  had  spoken  them, 
and  he  examined  them  with  disgust,  then  hastened 
to  say  something  true.  "  It's  as  though  you  were  two 
straight  lines  that  had  crossed.  You  can  never  meet 
again.  No  matter  what  you  do,  you  only  go  further  and 
further  apart.  It's  wonderful  to  me  now  that  you  kept 
together  so  long.  You  can't  escape  from  the  facts.  Either 
your  meeting  was  an  unhappy  accident,  best  put  away 
for  ever,  or  this  is  a  madness  of  Anne's.  But  you  can't 
help  believing  the  letter." 


STILL  LIFE  153 

"  No-o.  But  it  seemed  all  right,  you  know,  Dennis. 
Didn't  you  think  it  was  all  right,  yourself  ?  " 

"  But  I  had  nothing  to  go  upon.  I  knew  you  and  I 
knew  Anne,  not  so  much,  but  I  did  know  her.  But  I  only 
saw  you  together.  I  didn't  know  you  together.  If  I  say 
that  it  looked  all  right,  it's  not  saying  anything  at  all, 
really."  Why  had  he  never  thought  of  the  Cradocks 
together  ?  Anne  had  seemed  to  step  out  of  it  all,  not  in 
action  nor  visibly  as  she  had  done  now,  but  to  have  been 
herself  and  alone.  He  had  not  anticipated  what  would 
happen,  save  when  he  came  to  see  her  on  the  afternoon 
that  she  went,  yet  when  he  had  realised  that  something 
would  happen,  it  had  appeared  natural  and  right.  When 
he  had  known  that  she  had  gone  with  Maurice,  it  had 
made  no  difference.  She  in  herself  was  right.  The  out- 
ward circumstances  took  her  colour. 

"  I  thought  it  was  all  right  myself,  at  all  events,"  Cradock 
went  on,  "  and  now  suddenly  the  whole  thing's  gone.  It 
isn't  that  I  care  twopence  about  what  people  will  think, 
except  that  they  will  say  and  hint  things  about  her.  They'd 
better  not.  But — I  don't  know — it  was  so  fine.  You  see. 
She  was  so  wonderful.  No.  I  couldn't  have  understood 
her.  I  know  I  didn't  understand  her,  now.  I  didn't  think 
about  it.  I'm  not  that  sort  of  man,  I  suppose.  But  I  was 
so  proud  of  her.  You  know  the  way  she  used  to  have  with 
people.  It's  funny,  isn't  it,  but  I  only  began  to  know 
what  people  were  worth  when  she  was  there.  They  talked 
to  her  differently."  Abruptly  he  stopped.  "  You're  not 
bored  with  my  talking  like  this  ?  " 

Dennis  shook  his  head. 

"  I  didn't  think  she  would  have  done  it.  I  never  thought 
of  her  as  being  sorry  for  me  then.  But  now  I  think  she 
might  have  been  sorry  for  me.  Perhaps  it  would  have 
been  different  if  she'd  had  a  child.  I  don't  know.  Perhaps. 
...  I  can  see  those  straight  lines  you  talked  about. 
They're  so  plain.  It's  so  awful  to  think  that  they  go  on 
getting  further  and  further  apart.  I  shall  have  to  go  out 


154  STILL  LIFE 

of  that  house.    These  last  two  days  I  have  remembered  so 
much — more  than  I  ever  knew." 

The  last  words  hit  Dennis  hard.  This  was  the  Cradock 
that  he  had  expected.  Had  he  begun  thus  Dennis  would 
have  been  firm  against  him.  But  now,  in  contrast  to  the 
vindictiveness  and  the  wounded  pride  of  possession  to 
which  Cradock  had  given  way,  the  genuine  feeling  which 
showed  through  the  stumbling  words  met  with  an  in- 
stinctive response.  The  walls  of  criticism  and  contempt 
with  which  Dennis  had  fenced  himself  against  Cradock 
fell,  as  it  were,  at  the  sound  of  a  trumpet.  Now  it  was  not 
pity  alone  that  moved  him,  but  an  admiration  for  the 
truth  of  Cradock's  misery.  From  comprehensible  every- 
thing changed  to  incomprehensible.  Because  a  woman 
did  right,  why  should  a  man  be  hurt  ?  Some  element  in 
himself  flooded  out  to  unite  with  Cradock's  wounded 
spirit. 

"  There's  nothing  I  can  say.  But,  believe  me,  Cradock, 
I  would  give  my  soul  to  say  something.  Nothing  can  help 
you  if  you're  hard  hit,  I  know.  That's  your  own,  abso- 
lutely your  own,  and  you  have  to  get  through  with  it. 
What's  the  good  of  saying  that  to  you  ?  " 

Cradock  was  fingering  a  fork  that  lay  on  the  table,  dully 
watching  the  movements  of  his  hand.  Again  the  bigness 
of  the  man  seemed  to  surge  into  Dennis's  mind.  Again, 
yet  more  violently,  the  contrast  between  his  stature  and 
his  inward  impotence,  revolted  Dennis.  Into  his  mind 
irresistibly  there  came  the  figure  of  a  great  cuttlefish  that 
he  had  seen  dragged  out  of  a  rocky  pool  by  fishermen  and 
left  huddled  and  helpless  on  the  shore.  Against  his 
repulsion  fought  the  obligation  to  pity  and  sympathy. 
Though  the  obligation  was  false  he  obeyed  it.  The  moment 
for  pity  had  gone  for  ever,  yet  he  desired  to  express  it. 
Words  came  to  him  more  easily  than  before. 

"  Look  here,  Cradock,  do  you  think  that  I  can  do  any- 
thing ?  I  know  it's  not  doing  things  that  matters  at  all. 
It's  really  useless  ;  but  if  you  had  anything  for  me  to  do, 


STILL  LIFE  155 

it  would  satisfy  me.  This  is  only  a  kind  of  selfishness 
really.  I'm  talking  rubbish.  As  if  there  was  anything  at 
all  to  do." 

"  I'm  very  grateful."  Straightway  Dennis  despised  him 
for  being  grateful.  Perhaps  it  was  only  a  phrase.  What 
else  could  he  have  said  ?  Of  course  he  wasn't  grateful  ? 
Why  should  he  be  ?  There  wasn't  a  word  of  truth  in  what 
Dennis  had  just  said.  But  Cradock  hadn't  known  that. 
He  hated  Cradock  for  not  seeing  through  the  pretence ! 
Cradock  was  really  grateful, — that  was  so  despicable.  To 
be  grateful  for  Dennis's  meaningless  words  !  Dennis  was 
not  annoyed  with  himself  for  having  said  them,  but  with 
Cradock  for  having  received  them.  How  could  Anne  have 
lived  with  him  for  a  day  ?  Why  hadn't  he  known  it  before  ? 
The  burden  of  this  inferiority  was  intolerable.  Cradock 
was  speaking  again,  and  Dennis  listened  with  a  con- 
temptuous indifference  which  he  could  hardly  conceal. 

"  There  is  something — which  you  might  do — perhaps — 
if  you  would.  I  can't  go  to  see  her,  can  I  ?  " 

Dennis  knew  that  Cradock  desired  the  shadow  of  an 
opening.  He  would  close  them  all.  "  No,"  he  said  con- 
clusively. "  That's  impossible." 

"  Of  course.  .  .  .  But  you  may  be  going  to  see  Temple 
one  of  these  days.  ...  He  told  me  that  you're  his  only 
intimate  friend.  Then  you'll  be  seeing  them  both.  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  everything  about  her  .  .  .  and  him.  You 
will  know  more  than  ever  I  should.  .  .  .  That  was  strange, 
her  mentioning  you  in  her  letter.  It  wasn't  because  of 
that,  that  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  hadn't  anybody  else. 
It's  rather  ghastly  to  find  suddenly  that  you  haven't  any 
friends  ;  that  you've  gone  on  for  years  without  knowing 
it.  You  were  the  only  one  I  could  talk  to  about  it.  Perhaps 
Anne  knew  that.  Perhaps  she  didn't  want  me  to  talk  to 
anybody  else.  I  wouldn't  have,  anyhow.  I  don't  know. 
Do  you  know  why  it  was  ?  Yes,  you  were  the  only  one. 
That  comes  rather  hard,  all  of  a  sudden.  .  .  . 

'*  And  the  funny  thing  is  I'm  not  at  all  sure  about  you. 


156  STILL  LIFE 

That's  not  quite  what  I  mean.  But  you  might  be  laughing 
at  me  all  the  while,  it  wouldn't  be  very  different.  I  know 
you're  not  of  course — but  you  might  be.  I  wonder  why 
that  is.  You  don't  laugh  at  young  Temple,  I  suppose. 
Perhaps  he  has  the  same  feeling  about  you.  You  can't 
help  it  anyway.  Of  course,  it  must  be  all  imagination. 

"  Perhaps  I'm  the  only  one  you  laugh  at.  I  don't  mean 
that  you  laugh  at  me,  of  course.  I  mean  that  I'm  the  only 
person  who  feels  it  like  that.  Anne  wouldn't  have.  Why 
did  she  put  your  name  in  the  letter  ?  Did  you  know  all 
about  it,  before  ?  No,  of  course,  you  didn't.  Do  you 
know  all  about  it  now  ?  You  haven't  told  me  very  much 
to-day,  have  you  ?  Ever  since  she  put  your  name  in  the 
letter,  I'm  a  bit  frightened  of  you.  You  don't  mind  me 
talking  like  this,  do  you  ?  No,  you  wouldn't,  somehow. 
Why  don't  you  tell  me  all  you  know  ?  You're  not  afraid 
to  hurt  me,  are  you  ?  .  .  . 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  know  anything  more  than  I  do, 
though.  But  why  did  she  say  your  name  ?  Did  she  ever 
tell  you  anything  ?  I  know  she  didn't,  she  wouldn't.  It 
wouldn't  be  like  her.  But  you  must  know  more  than  I  do. 
Perhaps  if  I'd  known  as  much  as  you  do,  she  would  never 
have  gone.  I  wonder.  What  a  fool  I  am  !  I  used  not  to 
be  like  this.  I  must  have  changed.  Perhaps  she  wouldn't 
have  done  it  if  she  had  known.  What  was  the  good  of 
doing  this  to  me  ?  I'm  the  wrong  kind.  Yes,  that  must 
be  it.  I'm  the  wrong  kind.  ...  I  wonder  what  that 
means  ?  Do  you  know,  Dennis  ?  You  wouldn't  tell  me 
if  you  did,  would  you  ?  Why  should  you  anyhow  ?  Anne 
would  though.  Why  didn't  I  ask  her  ?  Oh,  I  didn't  know 
it  then,  of  course.  Funny,  it  seems  to  me  now  as  if  I'd 
known  it  all  the  while.  Yes,  I've  always  been  the  wrong 
kind.  But  even  now  I  don't  know  what  I  mean.  I  only 
feel  it.  Anne  will  tell  me,  though.  I'll  ask  her  one  of 
these  days,  soon  ...  oh  ...  you'll  have  to  ask  her  for 
me,  Dennis.  Don't  forget  whatever  you  do.  Perhaps  it 
will  be  all  right  when  I  know. 


STILL  LIFE  157 

"  But  that  wasn't  what  I  meant  to  ask  you,  was  it  ? 
I've  forgotten.  Oh,  yes,  .  .  .  you  were  going  down  to 
see  her.  I  want  you  to  tell  her.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't.  ...  It 
doesn't  matter  now.  But  don't  forget  what  I  said.  I 
didn't  know  a  bit  what  to  tell  her,  you  see.  It's  much 
better  if  you  ask  her  what  was  wrong  with  me.  It  sounds 
funny,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  can't  see  what  it  means, 
somehow.  It  just  looks  ridiculous.  No,  that  wasn't  quite 
it.  Just  ask  her  what  I  mean.  Do  you  see  ?  Tell  her 
what  I  said  just  now  and  ask  her  what  /  mean.  She'll 
understand. 

"  What  a  lot  I've  been  saying.  I'm  sorry.  I  don't 
know  why  I  get  like  that.  But  most  of  it's  quite  silly. 
But  don't  forget  the  question,  will  you  ?  .  .  .  Let's  have 
something  more  to  drink.  You  don't  need  to  go  already, 
surely." 

Dennis  had  risen,  but  slowly,  as  though  impelled,  he  sat 
down  again  in  his  chair.  He  felt  he  wanted  to  get  away 
from  Cradock  in  this  mood.  Not  that  he  was  alarmed  or 
frightened.  There  was  in  it  a  suggestion  of  responsibility 
for  him  ;  and  that  he  desired  to  avoid.  Of  course  he  would 
take  his  message,  that  was  a  mere  nothing,  but  he  dreaded 
having  to  support  Cradock,  to  support  any  man,  in  this 
incalculable  mood. 

"  That's  better."  Cradock  had  been  agitated  and  im- 
patient, intently  watching  the  action  of  the  waiter  as  he 
broke  the  wire,  and  drew  the  cork  with  a  flourish.  Then 
he  took  a  long  drink  from  his  bubbling  glass.  "  That's 
better."  As  suddenly,  his  familiar,  slow  deliberate  voice 
returned  to  him.  "  It's  rather  a  strain,  you  know,  screw- 
ing myself  up  tight  against  that  kind  of  thing.  It's  as 
though  I  suddenly  collapsed  inwards.  Do  you  understand 
me  ?  As  though  I  managed  to  keep  shape  most  of  the 
time,  and  suddenly  the  whole  thing  just  fell  in.  But 
I'll  get  over  that  soon,  I  suppose.  It's  a  momentary 
weakness.  The  strange  thing  is  that  I'm  rather  glad 
of  it.  , 


158  STILL  LIFE 

"  You're  not  angry  with  me  for  what  I  said  about  you, 
are  you  ?  It  wasn't  serious." 

"  Of  course  I'm  not." 

"  No.  ...  I  don't  think  you  are.  .  .  ." 

They  sat  silent  at  the  table,  occasionally  looking  at  each 
other.  The  tables  of  the  dining-room  had  emptied.  Dennis 
watched  one  solitary  waiter.  He  had  a  white  nervous 
face.  A  deep  forehead  overhung  an  insignificant  chin. 
Between  them  was  set  a  thin  wet  mouth,  continually 
working.  Sometimes  the  point  of  his  tongue  darted  out 
to  moisten  his  lips.  He  could  not  keep  still.  His  eyes 
moved  from  corner  to  corner,  and  he  turned  about  con- 
tinually. He  saw  that  Dennis  was  looking  at  him,  and  he 
disappeared  swiftly  behind  a  tall  hat-stand,  from  whence 
his  face  would  peer  forth  for  a  moment,  then  withdraw 
quickly,  as  he  caught  Dennis's  eyes.  He  was  an  infinite 
offence  to  Dennis. 

Dennis  began  to  feel  the  immensity  of  the  room.  Empty 
tables,  empty  chairs,  a  dull  waste  of  emptiness  spread 
about  them,  like  a  vast  grey  sea  surrounding  their  island, 
hemming  them  in.  He  longed  to  be  away.  Cradock  was 
oppressive  with  decay.  He  was,  in  very  truth,  fallen  in 
upon  himself,  a  lump  where  there  had  been  the  shape  and 
semblance  of  a  man.  Marvelling  at  the  exactness  of 
Cradock's  own  description,  Dennis  felt  that  the  sudden 
awakening  of  the  man  to  his  own  condition — an  awakening 
so  unexpected  in  him,  only  added  to  his  repulsiveness. 
He  seemed  to  have  acquiesced  in  his  own  disruption.  Just 
now  he  had  been  sincere  enough,  and  Dennis  had  responded 
to  his  sincerity  ;  that  was  all  on  the  surface.  Underneath 
everything  was  wrong.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  taste 
of  him.  Though  at  moments  he  appeared  almost  to  be 
seeing  himself  clearly,  judging  himself  to  be  of  the  wrong 
kind,  it  was  only  a  fetid  overflow  from  some  instantaneous 
corruption.  He  was  wrong  all  through,  repulsive,  some- 
thing to  be  avoided.  If  he  broke  out  again  like  that — 
Dennis  could  not  contemplate  the  thought.  He  wanted 


STILL  LIFE  159 

to  get  away.  For  an  instant  he  tried  to  check  himself 
with  the  idea  that  it  was  only  a  physical  repulsion,  that  he 
had  allowed  something  hateful  in  Cradock's  appearance, 
the  horrible  contrast  between  his  big  form  and  dull  eyes 
and  impotent  mouth,  to  prey  upon  his  mind,  to  give  a 
false  colour  to  the  reality.  But  nothing  could  overcome 
his  desire  to  get  away.  He  must  have  shifted  anxiously  in 
his  chair. 

;'  You  want  to  be  going,  don't  you  ?  "  said  Cradock. 

"  Yes,  I  must  be  off  now."  To  avoid  Cradock's  look  he 
stared  fixedly  down  at  his  watch.  "  I  shall  be  late  as  it  is." 

u  Oh,  well.  I  suppose  you  must.  I've  got  plenty  of 
things  to  do  myself,  too." 

As  they  rose  to  walk  down  between  the  line  of  tables, 
Dennis  knew  that  Cradock  would  take  him  by  the  arm. 
There  was  no  way  to  avoid  it.  The  thought  drove  him  to 
desperation.  He  had  a  horror  of  Cradock's  touch.  He 
nerved  himself,  and  until  they  reached  the  lobby  he  was 
conscious  of  nothing  save  the  tense  muscles  of  his  arm, 
where  Cradock's  hand  touched  him. 

"  Look  here,  Dennis.  I'm  going  away  to-morrow  morn- 
ing early  for  a  month.  I  haven't  decided  even  where  to  go 
yet,  but  it's  decided."  He  laughed  foolishly.  "  I  wish 
you'd  come  round  to  see  me  to-night.  I'd  like  to  have 
you  there.  Do  come." 

Dennis's  impulse  was  to  refuse,  flatly.  A  change  came 
over  him  and  his  "  no  "  was  tempered  to  "  You  see,  I 
have  a  great  deal  of  work  to  do  to-night." 

"  Couldn't  you  manage,  this  once  ?  I  shall  be  clean  out 
of  London  to-morrow.  At  least  five  hundred  miles  away, 
let's  hope.  You  might  as  well  come." 

For  all  his  overwhelming  dislike  of  the  man  as  he  had 
been  revealed  that  day,  Dennis  was  still  curious  about 
him.  He  was  fascinated  by  the  desire  to  spy  him  out,  and, 
by  spying  him  out,  to  triumph  completely  over  him  and 
to  hold  him  under  his  heel.  He  had  declared  finally 
against  him.  Before  their  meeting,  while  he  had  been 


160  STILL  LIFE 

anticipating  it,  he  had  been  hostile,  but  perhaps  more 
malicious  than  really  an  enemy  ;  now  he  wanted  to  crush 
Cradock. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  manage  it.  But  I  may  be  late,  you  know. 
What  time  do  you  want  me  to  come  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it's  no  use  suggesting  dinner  ?  " 

Dennis  shook  his  head  decisively.  Even  to  gratify  his 
desire,  he  would  not  pay  that  price. 

"  Couldn't  manage  it  possibly.  Say  nine  to  half -past. 
I  think  I  can  do  that." 

"  Very  well,  then.    But  don't  fail  me,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  I  promise.  You  know  how  things  are 
at  the  hospital  at  night,  unless  I  arrange  beforehand.  I 
cannot  say  for  certain,  absolutely." 

It  was  not  Dennis's  night-duty  ;  but  he  could  not  leave 
Cradock  comfortable. 


CHAPTER  X 

As  Dennis  went  his  way  back  along  the  Embankment  by 
the  side  of  the  river,  he  tried  to  render  himself  an  account 
of  the  last  two  hours.  It  was  not  much  use.  He  could  not 
detach  himself  sufficiently.  The  sense  of  his  revulsion  from 
Cradock  dominated  everything.  Every  attempt  to  see 
them  as  they  had  been,  narrowed  instantly  to  a  picture  of 
Cradock  as  he  had  sat  there.  He  could  not  get  beyond  it. 

Laughter,  clear  and  high-pitched,  sounded  so  close  to 
him  that  he  halted  sharp,  and  looked  about  him.  He  was 
close  to  a  wall.  Nobody  was  near  to  him,  and  he  was 
bewildered.  Then  he  heard  it  again.  He  looked  up.  Lean- 
ing over  the  wall  were  two  girls,  hardly  containing  them- 
selves from  laughing  in  his  face.  He  looked  at  them  with 
a  bemused  and  evident  amazement.  Dappled  sunlight 
poured  from  the  trees  behind  them  into  his  eyes,  and  he 
blinked.  This  time  they  laughed  outright,  and  turned 
away.  He  did  not  want  to  say  anything  to  them,  but  it 
would  have  been  foolish  just  to  walk  on.  So  he  raised  his 
hat  to  them  before  he  moved  slowly  away.  He  heard  them 
whisper  together. 

Then  he  was  grateful  for  the  interlude.  Their  laughter 
was  in  key  with  the  weather,  clear  as  the  bright  sunlight 
that  now  melted  away  the  traces  of  the  morning  rain. 
They  had  surprised  him  into  realising  how  deeply  he  was 
moved  against  Cradock.  The  thought  of  Cradock  had 
completely  occupied  him  before.  It  could  hardly  return 
with  the  same  strength,  but  he  knew  how  real  was  his 
animosity.  Now  his  feelings  seemed  to  connect  with  Anne. 
How,  he  could  not  tell,  but  sought  to  discover.  At  first  he 
thought  that  he  was  engaged  to  justify  her  by  proving 

M  1G1 


162  STILL  LIFE 

Cradock's  worthlessness.  But  Anne  was  already  com- 
pletely justified,  without  any  support  of  his.  Neverthe- 
less, he  could  not  dismiss  the  idea  from  his  mind.  At  all 
events,  whatever  might  be  the  inward  working  of  it,  he 
was  engaged  against  Cradock  for  her  in  some  way.  The 
reflection  pleased  him,  and  gave  him  a  confident  conviction 
of  rightness.  Also,  to  put  so  much  of  himself  into  a  pursuit 
was  a  rare  and  comfortable  experience  for  him.  Yes,  he 
was  very  grateful  to  those  two  girls  for  so  awakening  him 
to  his  own  enviable  condition.  He  turned  round,  and  was 
surprised  that  he  had  gone,  without  noticing  it,  so  far 
away  from  them.  He  could  still  see  something  white 
above  the  pavement  in  the  distance,  which  he  was  content 
to  believe  was  the  white  blouse  of  the  older  girl,  who  had 
been  the  first  to  turn  away.  After  a  pause,  he  resumed 
his  journey. 

During  the  afternoon  he  wrote  to  Maurice,  saying  that 
he  would  like  to  come  down,  "  and  see  you  both,"  at  the 
end  of  the  following  week.  He  bestirred  himself  and 
looked  out  a  convenient  train.  He  would  be  at  the  station 
at  ten  minutes  to  twelve,  and  would  walk,  so  that  he  would 
be  in  "  good  time  for  a  heavy  lunch." 

But  the  thought  of  his  evening  with  Cradock  accom- 
panied him  continually.  He  wanted  to  know  why  Cradock 
was  so  anxious  that  he  should  come.  It  couldn't  be  that 
he  was  going  to  burst  into  another  maundering  confession. 
Even  he,  even  in  his  present  state,  would  hardly  dare  to. 
Perhaps  he  had  to  have  somebody  about  with  him  now. 
The  possibility  that  he  had  been  invited  to  share  an  orgy 
of  sentimental  despondence  made  him  shiver.  He  had  to 
pay  for  his  curiosity  ;  but  at  the  same  moment  the  sense 
that  he  was  doing  it  for  Anne  lent  a  glamour  to  the  even- 
ing, and  in  that  comforting  conviction  he  remained  through 
an  infinity  of  small  occupations  at  the  hospital  during  the 
late  afternoon,  through  the  exacting  dinner-table  conversa- 
tion of  men  who  had  heard,  or  heard  by  report,  his  perora- 
tion to  the  morning  lecture,  through  a  period  of  dreamily 


STILL  LIFE  163 

doing  nothing,  smoking  in  his  own  room,  deliberately  pro- 
longed, until  the  moment  when  he  arrived  at  the  familiar 
door  in  Kensington. 

He  was  relieved  that  Cradock  did  not  open  to  him  in 
person  as  he  had  half  expected.  The  usual  preliminaries 
were  unusually  valuable  to  him  that  evening.  When  he 
entered  the  study  Cradock  hardly  looked  up.  He  lay 
stretched  in  a  big  arm-chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  one  hand 
hanging  down  over  the  chair-arm,  and  a  glass  of  whisky 
on  a  little  table  near  to  his  hand.  Apparently  he  had  been 
staring  at  the  fire. 

"  Hullo,  Dennis.  I'm  glad  you've  come.  It's  pretty 
late,  but  you're  within  your  limits." 

Dennis  was  wondering  whether  the  attitude  was  in- 
tentional. The  commonplace  of  it  was  terrible.  A  thousand 
bad  pictures  and  ten  thousand  bad  novels  proclaimed  it 
tlieir  own.  But  he  granted  that  Cradock  was  not  the  man 
to  do  such  a  thing  of  set  intention.  It  was  natural  to  him. 
He  was  the  kind  of  man  of  whom  the  bad  pictures  and  the 
bad  books  were  true.  This  was  the  climax  for  which 
Dennis  had  unconsciously  been  waiting.  He  had  been 
repelled  but  he  had  also  been  mystified  by  the  Cradock  of 
the  afternoon.  Now  all  the  hints  and  obscurities  were 
plain,  the  vague  lines  had  taken  their  final  shape  in  this 
picture  of  Cradock.  He  had  resolved  into  his  own  essence, 
and  become  the  very  idea  of  himself.  Dennis  rejoiced.  He 
had  the  full  measure  of  Cradock,  and  encompassed  him  on 
every  side. 

And  then  he  was  perfectly  sure  of  himself.  He  could 
have  played  his  part  securely  to  eternity. 

"  Have  something  to  drink  ?  "  said  Cradock.  "  You'll 
want  it.  I'm  rotten  company." 

Dennis  helped  himself  to  whisky  and  soda  quickly  to 
anticipate  his  host.  Cradock's  hand  would  certainly 
tremble,  and  he  did  not  want  to  see  it.  Cradock  was  not 
drunk.  He  never  would  be.  But  he  had  been  drinking. 
Dennis  pulled  another  chair  up  to  the  fire  and  sat  facing 


164  STILL  LIFE 

the  window.  He  saw  little  more  of  Cradock  than  his 
profile. 

They  had  forgotten  to  draw  the  curtains.  Then  he  saw 
that  there  were  no  curtains.  Outside  the  half-moon,  firm 
outlined  and  near  in  the  sky,  poured  a  silver  light  on  to  the 
little  garden,  giving  to  the  stone  steps  and  the  two  stone 
bowls  that  flanked  them,  the  semblance  of  ghostly  flesh. 
The  ivy-covered  wall  at  the  end  set  a  shining  boundary  to 
the  deep,  shaped  shadows  beneath  it.  Dennis  tried  to 
explore  them  with  his  eyes. 

Cradock  shifted  himself  up  in  his  chair,  bending  forwards 
to  the  fire,  stretching  his  hands  to  warm.  He  looked  at 
Dennis,  and  then  turned  his  head  sharply  to  the  window. 

"  Feels  cold  out  there,"  said  he.  "  I  wish  they  hadn't 
taken  all  the  curtains  away  from  the  back.  I  ought  to  have 
told  them  to  leave  these.  The  house  is  just  a  shell.  If 
they  raised  the  blinds  in  the  front,  everyone  could  see  the 
skeleton.  It's  a  rotten  feeling,  the  last  time  you're  in  a 
house  that  you've  lived  in  a  long  time." 

"  Like  standing  on  a  sand  castle  while  it  melts  away. 
I  know.  I've  changed  rooms  often  enough," 

"  Only  it's  a  bit  worse  here." 

r  "  Yes  .  .  .  perhaps  the  sand-castle  was  wrong.  It's  not 
important  enough.  More  like  a  lonely  island  crumbling 
into  the  ocean  with  you  for  the  one  inhabitant.  You  don't 
know  where  you're  going  to  find  a  landing  any  more. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down, 
It  may  be  we  shall  reach  the  happy  isles 
And  see  ... 

What  would  you  like  to  see,  Cradock  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  ask  me  for  ?    You  know." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't." 

"  I  know  you  do  "...  Cradock  slowly  insisted. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  had  managed  to  put  that  out  of  your 
mind.  You'll  have  to.  You'll  make  a  mess  of  it  if  you 
don't." 


STILL  LIFE  165 

"  How  the  devil  can  I  put  her  out  of  my  mind  ?  Could 
you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  different.  I  never  put  things  out  of 
my  mind.  But  then  you  live,  I  don't.  I  just  drag  about 
a  lumber  of  memories.  I  don't  pretend  to  solve  any 
problems.  You  do  ...  solve  them,  I  mean — not  pre- 
tend." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  away  by  the  nine-twenty  to-morrow 
morning.  That's  shirking,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  My  dear  man,  it's  a  solution  in  itself.  I  should  never 
go  anywhere,  never  have  the  sense  to,  if  I  were  in  your 
case.  I  should  just  hang  about  till  Doomsday." 

"  Would  you  ...  really  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  And  if  nobody  brought  me  food  regularly,  I  should  die 
of  starvation." 

Cradock  said  nothing. 

"  You  see,"  Dennis  explained,  "  I'm  not  one  of  those 
who  get  over  things.  The  only  reason  why  I  haven't  com- 
pletely succumbed  is  that  things  don't  happen  to  me.  But 
as  it  is  my  powers  of  resistance  are  gradually  decaying, 
and  the  moment  something  really  does  happen,  it'll  be  all 
up." 

Cradock  suddenly  awoke  to  the  situation.  "  Damn  it 
all,  Dennis,  it's  serious.  By  God,  man,  it  is." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  don't  think  it's  serious  1  " 

"  Well."  He  hesitated.  "  No— o.  ...  Of  course  not.  .  . . 
What  a  fool  I  am  !  .  .  .  You  mustn't  mind  if  I'm  a  bit 
jumpy." 

"  It  must  have  been  my  fault.  I  must  have  a  way  of 
making  people  think  that  I'm  laughing  at  them.  It's  not 
the  first  time  it's  happened." 

Dennis  watched  the  shadows  through  the  window  and 
Cradock  warmed  his  hands  in  silence.  "  Do  you  want  to 
know  why  I  asked  you  to  come  to-night  ? "  he  said  in 
uneasy  confession. 

"  If  you  like — not  otherwise.  ..." 

"  Well.  ...  I  thought  that  you  v,  ould  like  to  be  in  the 


166  STILL  LIFE 

house  on  the  last  evening.  I  don't  know  why.  Would 
you  ?  " 

:<  Yes,  of  course,  very  much." 

"  You  see  it  was  ours  for  a  long  time.  It  seemed  a  long 
time,  anyhow.  But  it's  an  age  since  that  dinner-party, 
much  longer  than  the  time  before.  I  wonder  why  the 
dinner-party  seems  to  have  been  the  last  thing  ...  it  must 
have  been,  of  course.  That  must  have  been  the  beginning. 
She  had  never  seen  him  before." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that.  But  I  can  under- 
stand why  it  seems  a  terribly  long  time  to  you.  It  does 
even  to  me." 

;<  You  haven't  seen  Anne,  since,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  came  in  the  next  afternoon  to  get  that 
book  you  lent  me.  No,  not  the  next  afternoon,  the  day 
after." 

"  Why,  that  was  the  afternoon  she  went  away." 

14  Yes,  I  suppose  it  was." 

"  I  wonder  .  .  .  did  you  notice  anything  strange  in 
her  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all.  .  .  .  Except  perhaps  ..." 

Cradock  was  eager  ;  therefore  Dennis  hesitated. 

"  Well  .  .  .  it's  hard  to  describe  .  .  .  there  was  some- 
thing about  her  .  .  .  rather  as  though  ...  I  don't  know 
how  to  describe  it,  but  she  was  a  little  more  Anne  than  I 
had  ever  known  her  before." 

"  Oh,"  said  Cradock.  He  was  disappointed.  "  I  know 
what  you  mean  ...  at  least  I  think  I  do  ...  I'm  not 
quite  sure,  though." 

"  Well,  I  haven't  got  any  other  words.  It's  easy  to 
read  all  sorts  of  things  into  it,  now  that  I  know  what's 
happened.  But  they  wouldn't  be  true." 

"  No,  of  course  not.  .  .  .  But  couldn't  you  give  me 
some  idea  ?  Do  you  mean  she  was  extreme,  somehow, 
rather  at  the  edge  of  things  ?  I'm  worse  than  you  are. 
.  .  .  But  you  know  what  I'm  after." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do.    It  wasn't  that  at  all.    Now  I  know 


STILL  LIFE  167 

what  has  happened,  I  should  say  that  she  seemed  to  me 
extraordinarily  sane,  quite  calm  as  and  if  she  had  decided 
about  something."  The  answer  gave  Dennis  a  real  satis- 
faction. "  But  that's  reading  it  with  a  knowledge  of  the 
future.  You  can't  really  do  that." 

"  No."  Cradock  rose  to  his  feet,  and  stood  looking  out 
of  the  window  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  When  he 
spoke  again  it  seemed  as  though  he  had  been  taking  a 
decision  apart.  "  Come  upstairs.  I'm  packing."  He  led 
the  way  to  the  door.  "  Bring  your  drink.  I'll  bring  mine." 
Glass  in  hand,  Dennis  followed  him  to  an  unfamiliar  height. 
Open  trunks,  half-filled,  obstructed  the  landing.  Three 
doors  were  open.  Through  each  he  could  see  a  litter  of 
white  paper  on  the  floor.  He  caught  a  glimpse  through 
one  of  a  deep  yellow  wall-paper  over  which  a  tenuous 
pattern  straggled  with  careful  labour.  Yellowed  rather 
than  yellow,  he  thought,  as  he  stepped  behind  Cradock 
over  a  heap  of  boots  into  his  bedroom,  and  he  knew  that 
the  room  was  Anne's. 

"  I  hate  packing,"  said  Cradock,  setting  his  glass  down 
upon  the  chest  of  drawers.  "  Somehow,  I  couldn't  let  the 
maids  do  it,  though.  I'd  sooner  do  it  all  myself,  now. 
You  see,  there's  Anne's." 

Dennis  evaded  giving  an  answer  to  this.  He  felt  that  he 
had  been  trapped  up  there  in  the  top  of  the  house.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  be  precarious,  set  on  a  razor's  edge. 
Dennis  felt  an  uneasy  quiet  within  him.  He  was  bodily 
apprehensive.  Sitting  down  on  Cradock's  bed  he  emptied 
his  glass  quickly,  and  placed  it  on  the  chest  of  drawers, 
relieved  to  be  rid  of  it.  Cradock,  bent  over  a  trunk  beneath 
him,  looked  up  and  said  :  "I  can't  do  any  more  just  now 
at  this  one.  I've  lost  all  my  initiative.  I  can't  even  cope 
with  a  trunkful  of  my  own  things.  They  bewilder  me." 

:'  That's  not  so  very  strange,  is  it  ?  I'm  always  like 
that.  It's  always  touch  and  go  at  the  station,  because  the 
cab  has  to  wait  while  I  do  an  hour's  packing  in  ten  minutes. 
I  tried  the  dodge  of  always  getting  the  cab  to  come  ten 


168  STILL  LIFE 

minutes  too  early,  but  it  wasn't  any  good.  I  can  never 
manage  to  deceive  myself.  But  I'm  just  like  you  are  about 
packing.  The  only  thing  is  to  do  something  else  for  a  bit 
.  .  .  you  might  even  tackle  another  box." 

The  last  words  had  been  spoken  through  Dennis  rather 
than  by  him.  More  than  ever  he  desired  to  be  away.  He 
would  have  given  anything  to  be  downstairs  again,  and 
yet  he  had  suggested  that  Cradock  should  begin  on  another 
box,  knowing  that  he  would  have  to  remain.  He  knew 
that  he  would  have  to  go  into  that  yellow  ^oom,  yet  he  was 
afraid  to  do  it.  He  might  kill  Cradock  there.  A  vision  of 
murder  passed  calmly  before  his  eyes.  It  was  so  natural 
and  trivial  that  it  almost  amused  him. 

"  What's  the  joke,  Dennis  ?  " 

"  I  just  saw  myself  in  the  act  of  killing  you.  It's  an 
awfully  simple  thing,  you  know.  I  never  realised  it  before. 
It's  done  before  you  remember  that  we  don't  live  in  that 
real  world,  but  in  an  unreal  one.  ..." 

"  God,  man,  but  that's  a  funny  idea." 

"  Isn't  it  ?  But  it's  funnier  still  when  you  think  that  at 
the  moment  I  spoke  I  didn't  think  it  was  funny  at  all. 
It  was  as  natural  as  ...  as  the  movement  of  my  lips 
now  when  I'm  speaking  to  you." 

"  Do  you  often  feel  like  that  ?  " 

"  Like  murder  ?  Good  heavens,  no  !  Don't  you  see 
that  the  murder's  only  incidental  ?  It  might  just  as  well  be 
telling  the  truth  to  someone  or  other.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
that's  more  common  with  me.  I  see  myself  turning  into 
a  spirit,  almost  not  existing  any  more,  then  I  tell  the  truth, 
the  real  truth.  .  .  .  It's  the  only  part  of  my  time  I  really 
care  about.  ...  As  though  I  spent  a  bit  of  my  life  in  a  real 
world  and  the  rest  in  an  unreal  one.  .  .  .  And  that's  prob- 
ably why  people  imagine  that  I'm  laughing  at  them." 

"  Don't  you  ever  want  to  do  the  things  you  think 
about  ?  " 

"  How  the  devil  could  I  want  to  ?  Can't  you  see  that 
the  moment  I  begin  doing  things  I'm  back  again  in  the 


STILL  LIFE  169 

unreal  world  ?  There's  no  connection  between.  There 
can't  be  any." 

"  Well,"  laughed  Cradock,  "  I  don't  see  how  a  spirit  can 
murder  a  spirit  anyway." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't." 

Cradock  was  startled  by  the  note.  Dennis  went  on 
quietly.  "  You  see,  I'm  rather  touchy  about  these  things. 
Anyhow,  it's  not  for  you  to  apologise  because  you  can't 
help  thinking  that  I'm  laughing  at  you — it's  for  me.  You 
don't  mind,  do  you  ?  " 

To  the  appeal  Cradock  instantly  responded.  It  freed 
some  impulse  in  him  that  Dennis's  coldness  had  repressed. 

"  Of  course  I  don't.  .  .  .  But  you  know  that.  Let's  go 
into  the  other  room.  .  .  .  That's  what  I  really  wanted  you 
to  come  for  this  evening.  .  .  .  I've  got  to  pack  Anne's 
things  .  .  .  you  remember  the  letter.  I  don't  know  why, 
but  I  felt  that  I  must  have  you  there  while  I  do  it. 
I'd  have  told  you  before,  only  something  put  me  off. 
Come  on." 

Cradock  took  his  glass  into  his  hand  and  went  before 
Dennis  into  the  yellow  room.  A  moment  later  he  turned 
back,  brushing  past  Dennis,  and  set  his  glass  on  the  floor 
outside.  Then  he  turned  up  the  light.  Two  large  wooden 
boxes  stood  neatly  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  the  flaps 
of  a  paper  lining  hanging  down  by  their  sides.  Every- 
thing in  the  room  was  tidy,  scrupulously  ordered  ;  but 
beneath  the  veneer  of  order  was  an  emptiness.  Dennis 
knew  that  all  the  intimate  possessions  had  departed,  and 
he  half  suspected  that  Anne  had  deliberately  given  an 
unfamiliar  arrangement  to  her  room  before  she  left.  One 
thing  besides  struck  him  strangely.  There  was  a  bracket 
for  two  electric  lights  by  the  side  of  her  bed.  One  was 
missing.  Above  all  else  this  made  him  feel  that  he  was  in 
a  deserted  place. 

"  Nothing's  been  touched  since  .  .  .,"  said  Cradock,  sur- 
veying the  room. 

"  No  ?    Didn't  Anne  take  anything  with  her  ?  " 


170  STILL  LIFE 

"  Nothing.  ...  I  don't  think  so,  at  least.  Here  are  all 
the  things."  He  waved  his  hand  generally  round  the  room. 

Dennis  sat  on  a  chair  by  a  small  writing-table  and 
watched  Cradock  slowly  take  a  photograph  of  himself  from 
the  dressing  table  and  close  the  frame.  He  was  contemp- 
tuous, and  more  contemptuous  when  he  heard  Cradock, 

"  No,  I  couldn't  have  done  it  by  myself.  I  had  to  have 
you  with  me." 

"  Shall  I  just  sit  here  while  you  stow  away  the  things,  or 
would  you  rather  I  helped  ?  " 

"  No  .  .  ."  said  Cradock  hastily.  "  I'd  rather  do  it 
myself." 

"  Very  well.  But  you'll  have  to  go  a  bit  faster.  I  have 
to  be  in  before  midnight.  You  mustn't  think  I'm  callous, 
but  there's  the  fact." 

The  table  stood  beside  a  window.  Dennis  leaned  over 
and  pulled  aside  the  curtain.  "  That's  a  wonderful  moon 
to-night.  It  seems  very  high  up  here.  I  suppose  it  isn't 
really  very  far."  He  paused  and  listened  to  the  crumpling 
of  the  paper  in  which  Cradock  wrapped  the  things. 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  can't  go  on,"  said  Cradock.  "  It's 
like  the  end  of  everything.  .  .  I  must  though.  .  ."  By  the 
time  Dennis  had  left  the  window  for  his  chair  one  half  of 
the  dressing  table  had  been  cleared,  Some  tortoiseshell 
boxes  and  brushes  remained.  "  They're  very  sumptuous, 
aren't  they  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Pretty  good,"  said  Cradock.  "  I  gave  them  to  her  for 
a  birthday  present  last  year." 

"  Ah.  .  .  ."  Dennis  gave  up  his  insistent  endeavour  to 
replace  Anne  in  the  room.  He  was  baulked  at  every  turn. 
She  might  have  busied  herself  in  carefully  removing  every 
vestige  of  her  presence,  folding  her  tiniest  tendrils  back 
again.  The  things  that  remained,  the  tall  broad  wardrobe 
with  panels  of  yellowed  glass,  the  table  at  which  he  sat, 
bearing  on  the  full  curve  of  its  pedestals  little  birds  and 
fruits  impertinently  inlaid,  the  smooth  wood  frame  of  the 
bed  with  insets  of  pliant  cane,  dully  shining  with  faded 


8TILL  LIFE  171 

gilt,  at  head  and  foot — they  were  gracious,  but  they  were 
not  her.  Not  even  the  whisper  of  a  rustling  skirt  or  the 
fragance  of  a  lingering  scent  had  defied  her. 

Finding  no  trace  of  her,  he  was  glad,  for  the  sight  of 
Cradock  bruising  something  of  hers  with  his  false  and 
clumsy  regrets  would  have  exasperated  him.  He  was  also 
disappointed  and  impatient.  Cradock's  attempts  to  convey 
his  broken  heart  into  the  gestures  with  which  he  packed 
Anne's  most  outward  possessions  were  like  the  spasmodical 
motions  of  a  marionette.  He  was  sick  and  tired  of  the 
performance.  It  was  so  unconvincing  that  he  nearly  for- 
got that  it  was  the  manifestation  of  a  living  man.  Nor  did 
that  recollection  reconcile  him  to  his  waiting  part. 

"  There  isn't  much  more,  is  there  ?  " 

Cradock  got  up  and  looked  round  the  room  and  at 
Dennis. 

"  I  can't  see  anything  else,  can  you  ?  " 

Dennis  shook  his  head.    "  Are  all  the  drawers  cleared  ?  " 

"  Yes  . . .  except  that  desk  you're  sitting  at I  haven't 

been  through  that .  .  .  just  see  if  there's  anything  in  it,  will 
you  ?  " 

"  Very  well."  He  turned  round  in  his  chair,  and  began 
to  open  the  drawers.  They  were  unlocked.  Three  were 
empty.  "  I  think  they're  all  cleared,"  he  said.  As  he 
opened  the  fourth  he  saw  a  small  packet  wrapped  in  tissue 
paper  and  tied  with  a  piece  of  ribbon.  His  instant  impulse 
was  to  say  nothing,  to  slip  the  packet  into  his  own  pocket. 
But  he  spoke  to  Cradock  instead.  "  Here's  something." 
Cradock  reached  out  his  hand.  Again  Dennis  felt  that  he 
would  dispute  it  with  him.  He  gave  it  to  Cradock.  "  Anne 
must  have  forgotten  it,"  he  said  lamely,  following  the 
packet  with  his  eyes. 

Cradock  felt  it  with  his  fingers.  "  I  wonder  what  it  is," 
said  he. 

"  How  can  I  tell?  "  Dennis  stared  at  the  carpet  beneath 
his  feet.  He  pressed  his  shoe  hard  on  a  cluster  of  grey 
grapes  that  pointed  towards  the  corner,  but  no  juice 


172  STILL  LIFE 

spurted  out.  He  was  in  suspense  until  he  heard  the  dry 
rustle  of  outspread  tissue-paper. 

"  My  God,  that's  funny.  Look  here,  man."  He  held 
up  in  his  hand  a  tiny  umbrella  of  ivory  about  a  finger  long. 
At  the  top  of  the  handle  was  a  bead  of  glass  or  a  diamond, 
for  it  sparkled  in  the  light.  "  What  on  earth  could  she 
want  with  that  ?  The  other  thing  must  be  a  photo  of  her 
mother.  I've  never  seen  it  before."  He  held  it  out  to 
Dennis,  who  took  it.  While  he  heard  Cradock  mutter : 
"  I  wonder  what  the  deuce.  .  .  ."  He  saw  a  woman  dressed 
in  the  ample  costume  of  the  'sixties.  Out  of  the  general 
greyness  of  the  daguerrotype  emerged  the  clear  outline 
of  her  face.  Her  dark  hair  was  drawn  straight  across  the 
profile  of  her  head,  and  she  was  leaning  forward  from  her 
chair  as  though  to  contemplate  the  beauty  of  her  own 
hands,  which  rested  on  a  table  before  her.  The  line  of  her 
mouth  was  thin  and  firm,  but  half-hidden  as  she  turned,  so 
that  he  could  not  say  whether  it  was  pity  or  contempt  that 
moved  her  lips.  Written  in  ink  on  the  glass  so  that  they 
could  hardly  be  seen  were  the  words,  "  Mamie,  about 
twenty-seven."  Then  he  felt  the  presence  of  Anne  once 
more.  She  seemed  to  have  risen  out  of  the  picture. 

"I've  got  it  now,"  said  Cradock.  "  It's  something  you 
look  through.  Views  of  some  place  or  other — a  dozen — 
oh,  it's  Paris — yes,  it's  printed  at  the  bottom."  Dennis 
watched  his  big  body  against  the  light.  He  could  just  see 
the  wrinkles  at  the  side  of  his  eyes  as  he  screwed  them  up 
to  look  through  the  pin-point  of  glass. 

"  Well,  that's  a  rum  thing  to  keep  all  these  years.  It 
must  have  been  given  her  when  she  was  a  little  girl,"  said 
he,  still  looking  through  the  glass.  "  Concorde — Tuileries 
• — Vendome — here,  you  have  a  look." 

"  No,  it  would  strain  my  eyes."  Dennis  handed  him 
back  the  photograph.  "  Besides,  I  must  be  going  ." 

"  Why,  it's  not  eleven  yet.  Look."  He  held  his  watch 
so  that  Dennis  could  see. 

"  Can't  be  helped.    I  have  to  go," 


STILL  LIFE  173 

"  But  why  ?    You  said  you  needn't  be  in  till  midnight." 

"  Yes,  but  I  want  to  go  now. . . .  You  don't  want  to  keep 
me?" 

"  Of  course  I  don't,  my  dear  fellow.  ..." 

"  I  stayed  to  the  end,"  Dennis  persisted. 

"  I'm  awfully  grateful.    I  should  never  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  then,  that's  why  I  want  to  go.  Don't  you  see 
that  it  would  be  an  anticlimax  ?  Just  look  at  it  as  you  do 
at  a  first  night.  Ca  saute  aux  yeux." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,"  Cradock  said,  feeling  his  way. 
"  Yes,  you're  right." 

"  I'm  sure  I  am.  Good  night.  Don't  bother,  I'll  let 
myself  out." 

"  Well,  good  night  then." 

Dennis  walked  down  the  stairs.  Every  flight  seemed 
like  a  stage  in  an  ascent  of  delirium.  Cradock  was  lean- 
ing over  the  banisters  listening  to  each  eight  descending 
steps  followed  by  the  pause  of  the  landing.  The  sixth 
pause  was  the  hall,  and  the  passage  to  the  street. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  called.  "  I'm  going  to-morrow.  We 
shan't  see  each  other  for  a  long  while." 

"  No."  The  clean  noise  of  the  shutting  door  cut  through 
his  echoing  "  Good-bye." 


CHAPTER   XI 

ANNE  stood  before  the  window  of  the  large  upper-room 
with  her  arm  upon  Maurice's  shoulder,  humming  the  horn- 
motive  from  "  The  Flying  Dutchman."  Big,  restless  grey 
clouds  whirled  across  the  sky.  A  low  undertone  of  wind, 
rising  and  falling  in  the  wood,  rose  in  the  silences. 

"  Morry,  I  think  this  is  where  I  shall  have  the  piano." 

Half  interested,  he  looked  at  the  space  by  the  window 
to  which  she  pointed. 

"  It's  a  good  place.  You'll  be  able  to  see  the  wood  from 
the  small  window ; — the  whole  world  from  here.  ...  Or 
do  people  who  play  the  piano  not  like  to  look  outside  ?  " 

"  Of  course  they  do.  The  phrase  I  was  humming  came 
straight  out  of  the  clouds  there.  .  .  .  But  you're  sure  it 
won't  disturb  you  in  the  cell  next  door  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  anything  disturbs  me.  It  wasn't  pianos 
in  those  rooms  in  Vauxhall,  but  carts  on  cobbles  all  day 
long,  and  they  didn't  worry  me.  But  you're  always 
asking  me  that.  Don't  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  do.  I  only  wanted  to  be  quite  certain. 
But  I'm  getting  terribly  impatient  about  the  piano.  I've 
never  had  so  much  music  in  me  as  I  have  now.  ...  I 
wish  I  had  written  last  night.  ..." 

"  It  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference.  They  couldn't 
have  sent  it  this  week.  They'd  have  got  the  letter  this 
morning,  Saturday.  Even  if  they  had  what  you  wanted 
they  wouldn't  send  till  Monday.  Besides,  it's  easy  to 
make  it  quite  all  right.  I  thought  of  walking  into  Pirford 
this  morning  to  meet  Dennis.  If  I  start  in  half  an  hour 
and  go  by  the  fields,  I'll  have  over  twenty  minutes  to  do 
things  before  his  train  gets  in." 

174 


STILL  LIFE  175 

"  But  isn't  it  a  very  long  way  to  walk  ?  " 

"  Not  more  than  five  miles  by  the  fields.  The  road  runs 
right  round  the  foot  of  Tenpenny  Hill,  to  keep  on  the  level. 
If  you  cut  straight  across  it  you  save  an  enormous  lot. 
It's  a  grand  morning  to  go.  I  don't  think  it'll  rain.  There's 
too  much  wind.  Look  how  those  clouds  are  spinning.  I 
wonder  how  they  manage  to  keep  together.  Besides, 
Dennis  said  he  was  going  to  walk,  and  it'll  be  fun  to  walk 
back  with  him.  ...  I  can  see  about  that  box  of  yours 
at  the  station  too." 

"I'd  like  to  come  with  you.  But  ten  miles — no,  I 
couldn't  manage  that.  But  I'll  make  something  special 
for  lunch.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  could  come  to  meet  you.  .  .  . 
But  if  you're  going  by  field  paths  I'd  better  not.  What 
time  do  you  think  you'll  be  back  ?  " 

"  About  a  quarter  to  two.  If  you  do  think  of  meeting 
us,  it's  quite  straightforward  for  the  first  mile.  Do  you 
remember  where  the  path  from  the  hill  turns  into  the 
little  white  road — the  way  we  came  back  the  other  after- 
noon— our  first  walk  ?  .  .  .  Well,  the  path  begins  just 
opposite  that  broken  gate.  You  won't  come  further  than 
that  ?  It  may  be  bad  going  after  the  rain  too.  You  don't 
know  what  real  chalk  mud  is  like."  He  laughed.  "  But 
what  shall  I  do  about  the  piano  ?  Don't  you  have  to 
choose  ?  " 

"  I  don't  suppose  there'll  be  an  awful  lot  to  choose 
from.  But  I've  written  out  a  list  of  the  pianos  I  want — in 
order.  They're  sure  to  have  one  of  them,  I  imagine.  You 
have  only  to  see  that  it's  quite  new,  and  arrange  about 
hiring  it  and  sending  it  over.  ...  Do  you  hate  to  do  things 
like  that  ?  " 

"  No,  why  should  I  ?  Anyhow,  you  get  that  list,  and  I'll 
just  put  on  my  thick  boots.  I'll  see  if  there  are  any  other 
things  to  get,  too.  I'll  be  ready  in  ten  minutes." 

Anne  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  watched  the  driven  clouds 
gather  into  a  dark  blue  mass  on  the  horizon.  Her  eyes 
followed  the  nearest  and  biggest  to  its  distant  home.  Then 


176  STILL  LIFE 

she  began  to  walk  slowly  about  the  room.  While  she 
walked,  her  phrase  expanded  to  a  swelling  volume  of  sound. 
"  How  I  do  love  that,"  she  said  to  herself  at  length,  tap- 
ping on  the  window-pane.  "  There  are  mornings  made 
for  music.  I  don't  often  find  a  Wagner  morning  ;  but  this 
is  one.  .  .  ." 

Maurice  called  up  to  her,  but  she  could  not  hear  the 
words.  She  tiptoed  quickly  to  the  door,  for  she  desired  at 
that  moment  to  tread  delicately,  and  flung  it  open. 

"  Ye-es,"  she  called. 

"  You're  enjoying  yourself  up  there.  ...  I  wanted  to 
ask  if  there  was  anything  else  to  get  you.  I'm  just  off." 

"  No,  nothing.  .  .  .  You're  going  to  see  about  the  box. 
But  there's  no  hurry  about  that.  It  is  a  wonderful 
morning  .  .  .  au  revoir." 

She  opened  the  window  as  he  went  down  the  garden 
path.  The  ungallant  winds  made  sport  with  some  rebellious 
hair.  She  caught  it  up  with  one  hand,  wryly  smiling,  and 
waved  to  him  with  the  other,  as  he  turned  at  the  gate. 
"  Blowy,"  he  called,  pulling  his  hat  down  on  to  his  ears. 
Then  he  walked  quickly  along  the  road,  with  long,  almost 
exaggerated  steps,  rolling  from  side  to  side.  At  the  corner 
before  he  disappeared  behind  "  The  Badger,"  he  waved 
again. 

Anne  shut  the  window  and  went  to  her  bedroom,  busy 
with  her  reluctant  hair.  "  As  for  your  hair,"  she  said 
to  the  mirror,  "  you  might  be  a  girl  of  eighteen  after 
a  tennis  party."  Her  eyes  fixed  on  her  reflection,  while 
her  fingers  searched  the  dressing-table  for  a  box  of  pins. 
The  lid  was  hard  to  open  with  one  hand,  and  she  glanced 
down  perforce.  It  was  a  black  box  of  Maurice's,  labelled 
vain-gloriously  "  Studs."  She  smiled.  "  It's  his  only 
article  de  toilette — the  only  piece  of  evidence  against  me." 
Still  holding  a  wisp  of  hair  she  turned  to  look  at  the  bed, 
as  yet  unmade  that  day.  He  had  forgotten  to  take  his 
pyjamas  away.  Generally  he  kept  them  rolled  tightly, 
for  they  were  very  woolly  and  made  a  clumsy  bundle  at 


STILL  LIFE  177 

tkeir  smallest,  in  a  drawer  of  his  chest  in  the  cell.  Now 
they  lay  importantly  upon  the  bed.  It  was  curious.  He 
had  dressed  in  his  own  room  as  usual,  that  morning.  Then 
she  remembered  that  he  had  come  back  soon  after  getting 
out  of  bed  to  remind  her  that  Dennis  was  coming.  He 
must  have  been  rolling  them  at  the  moment,  and  left  them 
behind. 

Her  fingers  returned  to  her  hair.  Vexed,  she  suddenly 
let  it  fall  down  and  began  a  thorough  reconstruction.  Her 
cheeks  were  warm.  She  remembered  Maurice's  visit  of 
the  morning  vividly.  There  had  been  a  touch  of  added 
confidence  in  his  timid  knock,  which  she  had  awaited  with 
foreknowledge.  Last  night  they  had  for  the  first  time 
been  lovers.  He  had  been  strange  with  the  burden  of  a 
half-ashamed  desire.  Of  the  tinge  of  shame  she  had  been 
more  acutely  conscious,  and  she  had  begun  herself  to  feel 
ashamed.  Nevertheless,  knowing  he  had  surrendered  him- 
self, she  had  striven  to  give  herself  up  to  him.  Even  now 
the  trace  of  a  shudder  passed  through  her  as  she  recollected 
the  agony  with  which  she  had,  so  vainly,  prayed  for  un- 
consciousness. In  that  moment  a  keen  instinct  had  shown 
her  how  she  was  utterly  involved  in  the  falsity  she  had 
foretold  to  herself,  and  to  him.  She  did  not  care  to  think 
about  it,  and  she  covered  the  thought  deliberately  with 
the  remembrance  of  how  he  had  rested  his  head  upon 
her  breast  and  gone  to  sleep,  while  she  had  watched  her 
own  poignant  unhappiness  fade  away.  Almost  she  had 
heard  herself  fall  asleep. 

Her  hair  finished,  she  looked  at  the  clock  that  lay  to  her 
hand.  Twenty-five  minutes  to  eleven.  She  had  more  than 
three  hours  of  the  morning  to  herself.  Then  underneath 
the  clock  she  caught  sight  of  the  list  of  pianos  she  had 
written  out.  Her  impulse  was  to  run  after  him.  But  he 
would  be  more  than  a  mile  away.  The  only  chance  was 
that  he  might  remember  and  come  back  for  it.  But  that 
would  certainly  make  him  late  for  Dennis.  Oh,  he  wouldn't 
do  that  in  any  case.  It  wasn't  to  be  expected.  It  was  her 


178  STILL  LIFE 

fault  for  not  having  given  him  the  list.  It  wasn't  for  her, 
who  had  herself  forgotten,  to  expect  that  Maurice  would 
remember.  Probably  the  piano  wouldn't  arrive  any 
sooner,  even  if  Maurice  were  to  call  at  the  shop  this  morn- 
ing ;  but  she  was  so  anxious  that  the  least  thing  definitely 
done  seemed  to  bring  it  nearer  to  her.  Still,  he  couldn't 
come  back.  It  was  her  own  fault.  For  all  that  she  could 
not  put  away  a  hopeful  suspicion  that  he  might  return. 
Then  she  would  not  let  him  go  to  Pirford.  It  would  be 
useless  anyhow. 

Anne  busied  herself  with  the  tulips,  talking  to  them, 
tenderly  stroking  those  she  cut,  pale  yellow  and  deep  red, 
white  and  yellow-brown.  Bending  over  them  she  seemed 
to  bend  beneath  a  wave  of  sudden  knowledge.  How 
changed  were  all  the  outward  circumstances  of  her  life ! 
She  thrilled  as  she  used  to  thrill  in  the  train,  approaching 
unknown  cities.  As  though  the  rush  of  consciousness 
were  but  the  stormy  swelling  of  her  material  blood,  it 
ebbed  away  from  her  brain  and  left  her  unchanged, — un- 
changeable, she  thought,  the  same  dimly  mysterious  Anne 
that  she  had  always  been  even  to  herself.  She  was  re- 
assured and  disappointed.  She  knelt  down  before  the 
bright  yellow  flowers.  The  storm  of  strangeness  over- 
whelmed her  again  and  she  pressed  her  face  into  the  blooms, 
crushing  the  fleshy  flower-cups.  For  an  instant,  she 
depended  upon  the  outward  things  of  her  life.  Their 
change  quickened  and  frightened  her,  but  only  for  an 
instant.  She  passed  back  into  herself,  more  aloof,  more 
dispassionate  and  cold.  She  felt  that  she  was  very  old. 
She  seemed  to  have  fulfilled  her  form,  like  a  crystal,  now 
set  hard  from  among  the  fluid  in  which  her  elements 
had  been  dispersed,  impervious  to  new  influences  and 
unlearnt  knowledge.  There  was  no  more  communication 
for  her  with  the  beyond,  no  more  communion,  hardly 
a  window  in  the  ark  from  whence  she  might  send  forth 
a  dove. 

Something  in  the  definite  little  picture  pleased  her,  and 


STILL  LIFE  179 

she  brooded  over  it,  sad  for  her  loneliness  and  glad  that 
she  was  alone.  She  moved  about  the  garden  in  the  grey 
light  of  the  windy  day  heavy  with  knowledge,  tending  the 
flowers  and  the  little  hedges  with  an  infinite  care,  gently, 
as  knowing  that  they  too  were  ordered  with  purpose  and 
set  alone,  like  stars. 

Meanwhile  Maurice  went  quickly  forward  over  the  fields. 
Although  he  looked  seldom  to  the  right  or  to  the  left  he 
was  happy  in  the  steady  harmonious  march  of  his  body, 
and  in  the  stout  dancing  wind,  that  threatened  instantly 
to  undermine  his  close- jammed  hat.  At  first,  while  he 
walked  swiftly,  he  was  timid  of  a  new  freedom.  The  shape- 
less clouds  of  his  mind  were  only  shaken,  not  driven  away. 
He  put  out  tendrils  of  his  being,  with  nervous  care,  which 
slowly  wound  about  the  joy  of  health  and  active  happiness. 
Gradually,  more  and  more  of  himself  seemed  to  work  out 
of  depression  and  insecurity  into  carelessness,  out  of  a 
past  where  he  was  uncertain  of  himself  into  a  future  where 
he  simply  lived.  The  thin  blade  of  inevitable  distrust 
which  divided  him  between  uncertainty  and  a  whole 
happiness  was  imperceptibly  withdrawn.  As  he  came  down 
the  last  slope  of  Tenpenny  Hill,  his  jolting,  long-striding 
descent  quickened  by  its  own  momentum  into  an  easy, 
light-springing  run.  He  kicked  his  heels  into  the  turf 
smartly  or  he  would  have  plunged  into  the  gate  that 
opened  on  to  a  hill  road  thick  with  silver-grey  mud.  Along 
this  he  pounded  noisily.  Even  the  sound  of  his  sticking 
shoes  was  comfortable  ;  the  elements  conspired  with  his 
mood.  He  stuffed  his  hands  into  his  coat  pockets,  and 
threw  back  his  head,  and  laughed.  A  few  paces  ahead  a 
bird  flitted  over  and  under  the  hedge,  off  the  road  and  on 
to  the  field,  with  pauses  so  swift  that  he  never  could  hold 
it  steady  before  his  eyes,  though  he  pressed  on  in  the 
exciting  chase.  His  road  lay  through  a  wood  before  he 
began  the  last  stretch  of  fields.  The  wind  shook  the  boughs, 
and  the  boughs,  green  tipped  and  glistening,  let  fall  their 
bursting  raindrops  upon  him.  Their  hollow  thudding 


180  STILL  LIFE 

upon  his  hat  was  friendly,  and  when  he  took  off  his  hat  to 
shake  it  dry  and  a  fine  spray  of  tinier  drops  smothered  his 
face,  he  only  laughed  again. 

On  a  field  bridge  not  far  from  the  town  he  waited  to 
watch  the  big  fish  biting.  The  eddying  circles  of  a  few 
raindrops  beginning  a  belated  shower  mingled  with  the 
incessant  commotions  of  the  rising  fish.  The  unending 
pattern  changed  and  changed  before  his  eyes,  always 
trembling  on  the  verge  of  the  nothingness  of  calm,  but 
always  withheld  on  the  brink  and  renewed  with  ripples 
out  of  the  depths,  quick  darting  and  slow  dying.  Maurice 
leant  for  long  over  the  bridge-rail  bemused  and  fascinated 
before  he  was  conscious  of  a  deep  desire  to  drink  out  of 
the  stream.  He  passed  over  the  bridge  and  on  to  the 
grass.  In  one  place  the  bank  made  a  small  flat  promontory, 
not  more  than  a  dozen  inches  above  the  water.  There  he 
lay  down  at  full  length,  scrabbling  backwards  with  his 
toes  in  the  wet  grass  and  the  soft  earth,  gripping  some 
roots  that  grew  in  the  bank,  nearly  covered  by  the  stream, 
with  his  hands.  He  bent  his  face  down  to  the  surface  : 
the  water  covered  his  nose  and  mouth,  as  he  took  a  long 
gulp  of  it.  Muddy-white,  and  chalk-clouded  to  the  eye, 
to  the  mouth  it  was  fresh  with  an  aftertaste  of  pleasant 
earth  washed  and  scoured  by  the  rain.  He  dabbled  his 
hands  about,  and  absorbed  himself  in  the  pleasure  of 
feeling  the  drops  run  off  his  nose  and  lips  before  he  rose. 
He  looked  down  at  his  coat.  It  was  patterned  with  wet. 
A  bigger  drop,  like  a  tear,  splashed  down  upon  it  while  he 
looked.  In  bewilderment  he  put  up  his  hand  and  touched 
the  rim  of  his  hat.  It  was  soaking.  Then  he  remembered 
he  had  forgotten  to  take  it  off  before  he  drank,  and  he  was 
surprised  and  vaguely  happy  with  himself  for  being  so 
natural  a  fool.  At  the  same  moment  he  woke  to  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  by  the  bridge  for  a  long  time.  He  turned 
his  hat  back  to  front,  and  set  off  at  a  trot  across  the  mile 
of  final  fields. 


STILL  LIFE  181 

The  signal  by  the  station  bridge  was  down,  and  in  the 
level  distance  he  saw  the  white  steam  of  the  engine  sweep- 
ing away  on  the  wind.  He  ran  faster,  scattering  the  sheep 
before  him,  eager  to  race  the  train.  Though  the  chase 
was  futile  he  believed  and  enjoyed  it :  but  the  last  few 
hundred  yards  he  ran  anxiously  lest  he  should  miss  his 
man.  On  the  opposite  platform  he  caught  sight  of  him 
and  whistled.  Dennis  waved  to  him,  picked  up  his  bag, 
and  walked  towards  the  bridge.  Before  he  had  reached  it 
Maurice  had  rushed  up  the  stairs,  clattered  loudly  across 
the  bridge  and  descended  the  steps  with  a  leap. 

"  Hullo,  you've  come." 

"  Did  you  think  I  wasn't  going  to  ?  " 

"  No-o.    Of  course  not.  .  .  ." 

Somehow  Dennis  checked  Maurice's  exuberance.  He 
was  deliberate.  He  always  was,  and  Maurice  expected  it. 
Nevertheless  it  chilled  him  now  and  he  became  appre- 
hensive. He  was  too  fond  of  Dennis  to  withdraw  into 
himself.  He  could  never  be  wholly  on  the  defensive  with 
him.  But  he  had  been  prevented  from  intimacy,  which 
might  have  made  all  the  rough  places  smooth,  and  he 
knew  that  they  were  waiting  each  for  the  other  to  say 
something  about  the  affair  with  Anne. 

"  We're  going  across  the  fields  ?  "  said  Dennis,  who 
knew  the  way. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  But  wait  a  minute.  .  .  .  I've  got  to  see 
about  a  box  .  .  .  belongs  to  Anne." 

Dennis  followed  his  abrupt  dive  down  the  approach 
into  the  goods  office,  and  encountered  him  hesitating 
under  the  tall  empty  shed.  He  was  peering  about  for 
the  clerk. 

"  Hullo,  I  thought  you'd  stay  in  the  station.  I  didn't 
mean  to  drag  you  down  here.  I  wouldn't  have  bolted 
either.  ..."  He  looked  about  him  again,  stepping 
forward  to  see  if  anyone  lurked  behind  the  pile  of  boxes 
and  bales.  "  Rather  like  the  bagages  enregistres,  isn't  it  ? 


182  STILL  LIFE 

At  St.  Lazare  ?  "  He  shot  the  remark  over  his  shoulder 
at  Dennis,  and  began  to  pound  on  the  low  counter  with 
his  hand,  ineffectually. 

"  What  on  earth  shall  I  do  ?  "  he  asked,  bewildered. 

"  Isn't  there  a  bell  or  something  ?  " 

They  both  looked  about.  Maurice  was  in  no  condition 
to  remark  things  of  service.  He  was  still  some  way  behind 
all  actual  happenings  when,  rather  surprised,  he  saw 
Dennis  put  his  finger  to  an  electric  button  in  the  wall. 

"  Oh,  that's  it,"  he  said. 

A  resentful,  pale-faced  clerk  appeared,  dusting  crumbs 
from  his  waistcoat,  and  trying  to  swallow  a  mouthful 
prematurely.  Seeing  Maurice  he  changed  his  mind  and 
chewed  on.  Seeing  Dennis  in  the  background,  he  changed 
his  mind  again  and  swallowed  with  a  gulping  effort.  He 
went  very  red  in  the  face. 

"  Oh,  I've  come  about  a  box  that's  been  sent  by  goods." 
The  man  was  impassive.  Impassivity  echoed  in  his 
"  What  name  1  " 

Maurice  was  suddenly  confused.  He  looked  on  the 
ground. 

Dennis's  voice  intervened  timely.  "  Temple's  the  name. 
Mrs.  Temple.  T-e-m-p-1-e.  Warren  Cottage,  Selden- 
hurst.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Have  you  got  it  ?  "  Dennis  took  charge  of  the  negotia- 
tion. 

"  I  think  there's  a  box  with  that  name.    I'll  see,  sir." 

"  Here  it  is  anyhow."  Dennis  climbed  on  to  the  counter 
and  tapped  one  with  his  foot.  "  What's  to  be  done  with  it, 
Morry  ?  " 

Maurice  lifted  his  head  and  revealed  the  colour  of  his 
face.  "  I  don't  know."  His  voice  was  low  and  shy. 
"  Let  me  think.  .  .  .  Moon  will  be  in  on  Monday." 

"  You  know  Mr.  Moon  of  '  The  Badger,'  don't  you  ? 
.  .  .  well,  he's  going  to  call  for  it  on  Monday.  Is  there 
anything  to  pay  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  183 

The  clerk  disappeared  for  a  moment. 

"  That  was  right,  wasn't  it,  Morry  ?  " 

"  Quite,"  he  said,  and  hurried  into  silence. 

"  What  a  depressing  hole  this  is !  It  simply  reeks  of 
desolation  and  emptiness.  .  .  .  It's  as  bad  as  London, — 
worse,  because  here  it's  indecent.  In  town  it's  natural." 

"  No,  sir,  nothing  to  pay."  The  clerk  held  out  a  yellowish 
paper.  ;<  You  have  to  sign  for  it,  please." 

Dennis  handed  it  on  to  Maurice.  "  Here,  this  is  your 
business.  Sign  down  here."  He  spread  out  the  paper  on 
the  rough  counter,  and  watched  Maurice  make  a  hieroglyph 
with  the  clerk's  pencil  stump.  "  There's  nothing  more,  is 
there  ?  " 

Maurice  shook  his  head,  and  led  the  way  into  the  sun, 
and  over  the  first  stile. 

"  Can't  I  carry  that  bag  of  yours  for  a  bit,  Dennis  ? 
You  must  be  sick  of  it,  I'm  fresh." 

"  No  fagging.  It's  about  as  heavy  as  a  pair  of 
gloves." 

"  Well,  you'll  tell  me  when  you're  tired  of  it  anyway. 
I  must  take  a  turn  at  it.  It's  only  fair." 

"  Very  well.  .  .  .  But  it's  all  right  at  present.  ...  By 
God,  it's  worth  while  to  get  away  from  that  damnable 
London." 

;<  Yes,  it's  good  out  here  to-day.  It's  been  blowing 
hard,  and  trying  to  rain.  I  stopped  so  long  at  the  pool 
that  I  nearly  missed  you." 

"  And  I  didn't  expect  you."  Maurice  was  not  attending 
to  Dennis's  words,  screwing  himself  up  to  the  point  of 
confession.  The  silence  loomed  between  them. 

"  I  was  a  fool  ...  in  that  office.  .  .  .  You  see,  I'd 
never  thought  about  the  name,  and  it  took  me  by 
surprise.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if  you 
hadn't  been  there  to  help  me  out.  It  was  awfully  good 
of  you." 

Dennis  was  almost  embarrassed.  "  I  understood  what 
was  up,  so  I  chimed  in." 


184  STILL  LIFE 

"  Just  at  the  critical  moment,"  Maurice  persisted. 
•" .  .  .  But  .  .  .  how  did  you  know  what  name  it  was  ? 
I  couldn't  have  guessed.  Anyhow,  if  I'd  had  to,  I  should 
have  said  the  other  thing.  ...  It  was  rather  decent  of 
Cradock,  don't  you  think  ?  " 
'  Yes,  I  suppose  it  was." 

"  But  how  did  you  guess  it  ?  " 

"I  didn't.    I  knew." 

"  Oh,  ..."  said  Maurice,  silenced,  not  daring  to  ask. 

"  I  saw  it  being  sent  off,  you  see.  Cradock  asked  me 
round  one  night,  and  he  was  packing  it  up  whilst  I  was 
there.  .  .  .  He  said  he  was  going  abroad  for  a  month, 
starting  the  next  morning.  That's  why  I  went.  Of  course 
I  saw  the  label.  I  couldn't  help  seeing  it,  considering  I 
sat  by  the  box  for  about  an  hour." 

"  So  that's  how  you  knew  which  one  it  was,  too.  I 
only  just  remembered  that  it  was  strange  that  you  did 
know." 

They  were  walking  over  the  footbridge.  "  That's  where 
I  wasted  all  the  time,  coming  to  meet  you.  Rummy  thing 
— water,  how  it  can  keep  you  looking  at  it.  See  that  little 
spit  sticking  out.  I  had  to  lie  down  and  have  a  drink. 
D'you  ever  get  taken  like  that  ?  " 

Dennis  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  too  old,  or  something. 
I  should  be  thinking  that  my  rump  was  sticking  up  into 
the  air,  if  the  muddiness  didn't  put  me  ofl  altogether.  I'm 
not  one  of  the  natural  ones  .  .  .  and  I  don't  think  you 
are,  very.  But  you've  got  a  touch." 

"  How  did  Cradock  take  it  ?  "  Maurice  burst  out.  "  You 
knew  it  had  happened  before  you  saw  him,  didn't  you  ? 
Or  was  it  before  my  letter  ?  " 

"  The  same  night,  I  think." 

"  It's  hard  lines  on  him,  I  suppose.  But  I  can't  help 
that,  can  I  ?  " 

"  Not  possibly.  I  shouldn't  worry  about  him,  if  I  were 
you !  " 

"  I  don't,  really,"  Maurice  repudiated.    The  momentary 


STILL  LIFE  185 

flash  of  conversation  died  away.  At  times  he  thought  that 
Dennis  was  purposely  keeping  silence  about  himself  and 
Anne,  to  provoke  him  into  an  outburst.  What  else  was 
there  to  talk  about  ?  How  could  he  avoid  it  except  by 
intention  ?  But  it  was  impossible  to  maintain  an  irritation 
against  Dennis.  He  never  was  really  angry  with  him. 
Glancing  at  his  face,  he  saw  that  he  was  staring  moodily  at 
the  ground  beneath  him.  The  friendly  glance  fell  in  desert 
places.  Of  course  it  was  very  awkward  for  Dennis  to 
speak  about  it.  And  it  was  for  Maurice  himself  to  begin. 
He  had  done  it,  and  he  had  to  explain.  Not  that  he  wanted 
to  explain, — he  wasn't  going  to,  and  he  couldn't — he 
wanted  to  hear  what  Dennis  thought.  For  a  while  he 
heard  nothing  but  the  soft  crushing  of  their  steps  on  the 
grass.  His  desire  to  ask  the  question  compelled  the  blood 
to  his  head.  He  worked  himself  into  an  extravagant  state. 
Then  he  did  ask  :  "  What  do  you  think  .  .  .  ?  "  but  the 
words  crept  out  of  his  mouth  so  husky  and  small  that 
Dennis  did  not  hear  them.  Maurice  was  vexed  with 
shame  and  confusion  ;  and  immediately  in  a  clear,  too 
decided  voice,  said : 

"  What  do  you  think  about  this  business — honestly  ?  " 

A  false  calm  came  upon  him  while  he  waited,  as  though 
his  outer  surface  had  suddenly  frozen. 

"  It  seems  all  right,"  said  Dennis  slowly.  "...  But  it's 
a  bit  difficult.  There  are  two  sides  to  it — you  and  Anne. 
Well,  I  know  you,  a  bit  anyhow,  but  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
know  anything  about  her." 

"  I  don't  either."    Maurice  wanted  to  be  contradicted. 

ic  You  must.  After  all  you've  done  something.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  should  have  said  that  you  might  have  any  number 
of  things  done  to  you,  but  you'd  hardly  do  anything. 
You've  begun  to  get  beyond  my  knowledge  of  you,  if  you 
want  me  to  tell  the  truth."  Dennis  wondered  whether  he 
was  speaking  the  truth.  He  recognised  a  shade  of  false- 
hood in  his  words,  but  they  came  naturally.  "  As  for  Anne 
— she  might  do  anything.  It  wouldn't  surprise  me.  I 


186  STILL  LIFE 

mean — only  interest  me.  That  was  why  I  wasn't  surprised 
when  I  got  your  letter.  I  wasn't.  But  that  doesn't 
explain  anything.  That  only  means  Anne's  done  some- 
thing. You  see  what  I  mean.  It's  as  though  she  were 
positive  and  you  were  negative.  That  was  how  I  used  to 
see  you,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 

"  But  it's  not  good  enough  now.  It  seems  that  you've 
gone  and  hit  something  between  you,  and  that's  what 
baffles  me.  ...  I  don't  see  the  common  point  between 
you.  I  dare  say  that's  why  I've  come  down — to  spy  out 
the  land." 

Maurice  did  not  reply.  Dennis  had  revealed  something 
to  him.  He  had  been  taken  outside  himself  and  given  a 
glimpse.  The  unfamiliarity  of  the  aspect  troubled  him. 
What  was  the  common  point  of  impact  between  himself 
and  Anne  ?  You  could  not  be  expected  to  see  things  like 
that  when  you  were  so  close  and  entangled.  Of  course 
there  was  one.  Why,  there  they  were  !  But  perhaps  that 
was  all  wrong  about  the  common  point.  Perhaps  lovers 
were  just  complementary  to  each  other,  supplying  each 
the  other's  deficiencies.  Anne's  deficiencies — that  was 
rather  queer.  You  could  hardly  say  that  she  had  any 
deficiencies.  In  fact,  you  didn't  look  at  her  that  way. 
But  then  where  did  he  come  in  ?  A  warm  memory  of  his 
happiness  with  her  last  night  enfolded  him,  so  close  and 
actual  that  it  decided  his  thought,  and  overflowed  into 
words. 

"  I  don't  know — any  more  than  you  do — I  can't  explain. 
I  was  a  bit  frightened  of  her  at  first.  Yes,  I  was.  But  now 
it's  gone.  I  don't  think  at  all.  I  know  that  sounds  just 
like  anybody  else.  I'm  trying  hard  to  tell  you,  but  it's  no 
good.  .  .  .  It's  as  though  I  had  just  toppled  over  the 
extreme  edge  of  self-consciousness,  into — unconsciousness 
— anything." 

"  Yes.  ...  Is  Anne  the  same  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  ...  At  least,  I  suppose  so.  She  must  be. 
You  see  you  can't  put  us  apart  like  that.  You're  tackling 


STILL  LIFE  187 

it  in  the  wrong  way.  It  isn't  me,  and  then  Anne  ;  there's 
something  new,  a  kind  of  me-and-Anne,  and  that's  so  hard 
to  tell  you  about." 

"  That's  what  I  meant  by  what  I  said  before,"  said 
Dennis,  "  I  can't  really  tell  you  what  I  think  about  it, 
because  it's  new.  I  have  to  come  at  it  from  the  past.  The 
you  I  knew  and  the  Anne  I  knew, — they  don't  help  at  all 
in  understanding  both  of  you, — rejuvenated." 

The  hint  of  sarcasm  stung  Maurice.  He  caught  at  a  soft 
green  twig  in  the  hedge  and  tore  it  away,  and  began  slowly 
to  pluck  the  buds. 

"  Well,  do  you  think  I'm  changed,  now  ?  "  he  said. 

Dennis  glanced  at  his  face.  He  was  apparently  intent 
upon  the  stripping  of  the  twig.  A  nervous  flush  contrasted 
with  an  unsteady  sternness  in  his  lips.  For  an  instant 
Dennis  racked  himself  to  be  honest ;  then  a  sudden  in- 
difference came  on  him.  Except  that  Maurice  was  easier 
to  hurt,  he  felt  no  change.  He  had  acquired  a  private 
possession.  Neither  the  acquiring  nor  the  acquisition  were 
to  be  criticised,  not  even  bantered.  That  was  a  new  phase 
and  a  weak  one.  It  was  only  an  attempt  to  conceal  that 
he  was  not  sure  of  himself.  He  had  never  tried  to  conceal 
his  insecurity  before,  and  it  was  Maurice's  natural  honesty 
about  himself,  expanding  with  Dennis's  sympathy  and 
understanding,  that  had  held  them  such  close  friends. 
Now  Dennis  felt  indifferent,  even  complacent  that  Maurice 
was  betraying  himself. 

"  No,"  he  said  judicially,  "  it's  strange,  but  you  don't 
seem  to  have  altered,  except  perhaps  in  one  way.  But 
then  I've  not  had  time  to  size  you  up.  It  all  comes  to  the 
same  thing  again." 

Maurice  felt  as  though  he  had  been  found  out.  There 
was  not  anything  to  find  out,  he  thought ;  but  the  feeling 
remained.  He  had  expected,  rather  hoped,  that  Dennis 
would  find  him  changed ;  for  thus  he  would  have  been 
able  to  believe  in  himself.  Perhaps  he  never  believed  in 
anything  so  much  as  Dennis's  belief  in  him.  And  Dennis 


188  STILL  LIFE 

believed  in  him  a  little  less  now  than  before.  It  was  a 
bitter  disappointment.  He  found  a  perverse  satisfaction 
in  leading  Dennis  to  enlarge  upon  his  lack  of  change. 

"  But  that's  not  true.  I  don't  believe  you  need  any 
more  time  to  size  me  up.  I've  been  a  bit  awkward  with 
you,  waiting  to  ask  you  what  you  thought, — but  then  I'm 
always  like  that.  It's  all  me,  I'm  sure.  You  don't  think 
I've  changed  ;  and  now  you  won't  think  it.  But  I  ought 
to  have  changed,  oughtn't  I  ?  " 

"  I  can't  see  there's  any  '  ought '  about  it." 

"  That's  not  the  point,"  Maurice  said  impatiently. 
"  The  fact  is  I  haven't  changed.  That's  right  enough  for 
me.  I  just  haven't.  It  only  means  that  it  wouldn't  have 
been  me  if  I  had.  But  you  would  expect  that  I'd  have 
changed,  wouldn't  you  ?  I  know  there's  no  '  ought '  about 
it  in  one  way.  But  you  don't  have  to  consider  me  alone. 
That's  all  over.  You  must  think  of  me  in  relation  to  Anne 
— oh,  Lord  !  it's  silly  of  me  to  tell  you  that — as  if  you 
didn't  know."  He  broke  off.  The  twig,  twisted,  snapped 
half  across.  Pulling  at  the  edge  of  the  soft  bark,  he  looked 
quickly  at  Dennis.  "  You  did  expect  me  to  have  changed, 
didn't  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't." 

If  he  could  have  been  angry  with  Dennis  he  was  angry 
then.  His  friend  had  suddenly  turned  enemy,  seeking  out 
his  weak  places.  He  wanted  to  strike  out  in  defence. 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  incapable  of  changing  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  not  that." 

"  Why  didn't  you  expect  me  changed  then  ?  " 

"  It  depended  upon  the  kind  of  change  ...  I  thought 
you  would  need  to  become  active ; — fuller,  completed  on 
the  incomplete  side  of  you.  Do  you  understand  ?  I  didn't 
see  the  beginning  of  that  in  you,  or  anything  out  of  which 
it  might  have  developed.  That's  why  I  didn't  expect  to 
find  you  different.  But  can't  you  understand  that  I'm 
working  from  fixed  ideas  ?  It's  perfectly  ridiculous  for 
me  to  talk  about  it.  I  don't  know.  I'm  only  laying  down 


STILL  LIFE  189 

the  law  about  the  Ethiopian  not  changing  his  skin.  How 
the  devil  do  I  know  whether  you're  an  Ethiopian,  or  whether 
there's  any  reason  why  you  should  change  your  skin  even 
if  you  were  one  ?  " 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  honestly  ?  "  persisted  Maurice. 

"  Honestly.  I  do  really  feel  now  that  I'm  just  flounder- 
ing in  a  mental  chaos.  As  for  what  I've  been  saying  before, 
I'm  not  sure  that  it  wasn't  a  kind  of  jealousy." 

Maurice  laughed,  but  the  laugh  ended  dubiously.  There 
was  a  streak  of  seriousness  in  Dennis's  remark,  that  raised 
him  again  in  his  own  esteem.  He  was  half  convinced  by  it 
that  he  had  progressed.  Immediately  he  was  strong 
enough  to  be  silent. 

After  a  while  he  said  :  "  Anne  said  she  might  come  to 
meet  us  at  the  road.  I  wonder  if  she'll  be  there." 

"  The  weather's  cleared  at  all  events,"  said  Dennis. 

It  had  in  truth.  A  chink  of  almost  colourless  blue  sky 
had  opened  to  a  vault  while  they  walked.  Before  it  the 
heavy  clouds  had  been  driven  into  a  distant  belt  on  the 
horizon.  While  she  took  shelter  within  the  house  from  the 
sudden  shower  Anne  had  watched  it  slowly  broadening, 
debating  in  herself  whether  she  should  go  out  to  the  meet- 
ing-place. She  had  almost  forgotten  that  Dennis  was  to 
be  there,  and  when  she  remembered  it,  an  instinctive 
repugnance  to  go  out  to  them  overcame  her,  as  if  to  go 
out  to  them  were  to  expose  herself.  She  preferred  to  await 
criticism,  for  so  she  could  maintain  herself  impervious  to  it. 
Dennis  was  bound  to  be  critical,  she  knew.  That  was  of 
no  account.  She  also  knew  that  he  would  be  critical  for 
her  rather  than  of  her.  She  shrank  from  affording  him 
occasions  for  that.  Therefore  she  gathered  herself  inwardly, 
until  the  act  of  going  out  to  greet  them  was  impossible. 

"  I  don't  see  her,"  said  Maurice,  balancing  himself  on 
the  top  rail  of  a  stile  to  look  across  the  field  that  led  to  the 
road.  "  I  suppose  she  had  something  to  do."  Disappoint- 
ment sank  instantly  to  apprehension  of  disaster.  "  Let's 
hurry  up, — we  must  be  late." 


190  STILL  LIFE 

"  We've  come  along  at  a  fair  rate,"  suggested  Dennis. 

Maurice  made  no  reply,  but  led  the  way  furiously  across 
the  field.  "  I  think  I'll  run  on,"  he  said,  half-way  across, 
"  you  don't  mind  ?  "  He  ran  fast  across  the  field.  Dennis 
saw  him  scramble  tumultuously  over  the  far  stile.  His 
head  jerked  occasionally  into  sight  over  the  hedge. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"  WHY,  what  have  you  been  doing  ?  "  said  Anne. 

"  Nothing,"  he  gasped,  out  of  breath.  "  I  only  came  on 
— ahead,  to  see  if  you  were  all  right." 

"  What  made  you  think  there  was  anything  wrong  ?  " 

:<  You  weren't  at  the  road,  you  see.  I  had  an  idea — 
quite  silly — so  I  just  had  to  run." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  come  !  "  Anne  took  his  hand  into 
hers.  "  There  wasn't  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't ;  but, 
just  when  I  was  getting  ready  I  didn't  want  to." 

"  Why  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  just  felt  like  that.  You  don't  mind 
now,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not.  Besides,  it  wasn't  as  if  I'd  really 
expected  you.  It  was  only  when  I  got  to  the  road.  The 
moment  I  saw  you  weren't  there,  I  was  worried.  That's 
all.  But  you  look  tired.  Have  you  been  doing  too  much  ?  " 
He  stood  between  the  window  and  the  fire.  Anne  held  out 
his  hands,  and  looked  steadily  up  at  him  from  her  chair. 

He  turned  round  to  the  window.  "  Here's  Dennis,"  he 
said,  and  pulled  his  hands  away.  He  slipped  into  the 
kitchen.  Anne  rose  to  open  the  door. 

"  He  deserted  you  on  the  way  then  ?  "  she  called  to 
Dennis  as  he  came  up  the  path. 

"  Bolted  like  a  hare,  almost  before  I  knew  he  was 
gone." 

They  shook  hands  as  they  were  used.  Each  looked  for 
a  difference  in  the  other  and  found  none. 

"  I  envy  you,  Mrs.  Cradock,"  he  began,  and  stopped 
short,  ludicrously.  "  So  I've  begun  already,"  he  said,  with 
unfeigned  surprise  at  himself.  "  What  am  I  to  call  you 

191 


192  STILL  LIFE 

now  ?  It's  a  serious  problem — or  it  will  be  unless  we  settle 
it  now." 

"  Let's  settle  it  then.  I  think  the  safest  way  out  is  for 
you  to  call  me  Anne.  You  won't  have  to  hesitate." 

Dennis  was  happy  enough  at  that.  "I'm  not  at  all  sure, 
though.  It  may  be  a  bit  worse  ;  but  I'll  do  my  best.  .  .  . 
I  was  going  to  say  that  I  envy  you.  I've  forgotten  what  I 
envied  you  for,  probably  for  being  in  the  qpuntry.  Oh, 
yes  !  And  I  was  going  to  give  you  a  pathetjc  account  of 
the  mental  torment  I  have  to  undergo  in  'the  hospital. 
Your  interruption  saved  you  that." 

"  I  didn't  interrupt  you  as  a  matter  of  fact — it  was 
you." 

"  Well,  then  /  saved  you." 

"  I'm  grateful.  .  .  ." 

"  Morry  found  you  uninjured,  apparently." 

"  Yes.  I  wonder  where  he  is.  He  went  out  just  as  you 
came  to  the  door." 

"  It's  all  right.  I'm  only  washing  myself,"  Maurice's 
voice  emerged  from  the  kitchen.  "  I'm  just  coming." 

Dennis  and  Anne  watched  each  other  for  a  little.  He 
was  disinclined  to  make  another  remark.  Unless  he 
attempted  to  be  flippant,  he  could  say  nothing.  The  last 
attempt  echoed  so  hollow  in  his  ears  that  he  remained 
silent.  Anne  was  aware  of  his  discomfort,  and  he  knew  it. 
He  was  angry  with  himself  for  being  cheap.  The  situation 
tried  him,  for  no  way  of  handling  it  presented  itself  to  him. 
If  he  had  needed  to  say  nothing  it  would  have  been  better, 
for  he  felt  that  he  could  have  managed  to  keep  silence. 
One  thing  made  it  impossible.  Anne  was  silent  too,  and 
her  silence  had  a  quality.  It  was  personal  and  her  own. 
His  own  was  empty  and  uneasy  beside  hers.  While  this 
sped  through  his  mind  he  heard  the  outer  door  rattle. 
Maurice  had  gone  outside.  He  had  to  say  something  now. 
An  impulse  rose  in  him  to  tell  Anne  exactly  what  he  was 
thinking.  That  would  have  been  an  appeal  to  her  mercy 
and  sympathy.  He  thrust  it  away  from  him.  A  kind  of 


STILL  LIFE  193 

pride  urged  him  to  meet  her  on  her  own  ground,  equal  with 
equal. 

"  I  saw  Cradock  the  other  night."  He  threw  the  words 
like  a  glove  of  challenge,  almost  superciliously. 

Anne  lightly  clasped  her  fingers  together,  and  bent  her 
head  forward  until  her  lips  touched  them.  "  I  thought  you 
would.  I  wrote  him  a  letter  advising  him  to  see  you  if  he 
felt  inclined." 

"  He  showed  me  the  letter."  Was  it  to  hurt  Anne,  to 
damage  Cradock — or  only  honesty  ?  Something  of  each 
of  these,  but  chiefly  honesty,  and  in  it  all  was  the  desire  to 
say  something  of  moment  that  might  provoke  a  response. 
He  seemed  to  be  shrinking  in  stature  beside  her. 

"  Ah  !  "  It  was  acquiescent.  "  I  think  that  was  sensible 
of  him.  He  asked  you  to  explain  it,  I  suppose  ?  .  .  .  That 
must  have  been  difficult." 

"  It  would  have  been,  if  I'd  really  tried  to  ;  but  I  didn't. 
I  don't  think  he  was  in  the  mood  to  understand." 

"  Strange  if  he  had  been.  .  .  .  But  I'm  rather  sorry  that 
you  saw  him  like  that.  He  can  be  very  unfair  to  himself." 
She  spoke  as  though  she  had  known  all  that  had  passed. 
Not  an  evidence  of  curiosity  escaped  into  her  words.  He 
thought  first  that  hers  was  a  marvellous  composure,  an 
impregnable  defence  erected  against  him,  then  that  she  did 
know — all  that  there  was  to  know  about  Cradock,  that  she 
neither  needed  nor  desired  to  learn  anything  of  what  had 
passed,  for  she  already  knew  more  than  he.  How  could  he 
persevere  in  talking  of  it  ?  He  was  on  the  point  of  con- 
fessing his  thoughts.  Now  that  he  was  near  her  his  control 
of  his  own  consciousness  was  so  precarious  that  he  desired 
instantly  to  be  rid  of  it.  He  waited,  fretting  at  the  bridle, 
vainly  about  for  some  speech  that  would  not  betray  him 
by  its  inconsequence  or  its  inadequacy. 

In  spite  of  himself  he  said  quickly,  "  I  hated  him — 
loathed  him.  I  believe  I  could  have  killed  him."  He  saved 
himself  sufficiently  to  let  the  words  sound  dispassionate. 

Anne  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  her  hands  still  lightly 


194  STILL  LIFE 

clasped  before  her.  She  seemed  for  a  second  to  stiffen  and 
stretch  like  one  awakening  from  a  brooding  sleep,  and  her 
lips  held  the  semblance  of  a  smile,  unreflected  in  her  eyes, 
which  shone  with  the  grave  comprehending  kindness  which 
was  their  repose. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  think  you  would." 

"  Why  do  you  think  that  ?  "  he  pressed.  "  It  was  a  dis- 
covery to  me." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  can  express  it  in  words.  For  one 
thing  I  haven't  the  habit.  Besides,  it's  something  that 
doesn't  really  need  words.  Jim  has  it  in  him  underneath. 
If  the  blow  is  hard  enough  to  penetrate,  it  seems  to  cut 
right  through  him,  to  separate  the  inner  from  the  outer 
man.  .  .  .  There's  something  terrible  about  the  inner  Jim. 
It's  so  small.  Sometimes  I've  thought  it  would  shrink  right 
away.  .  .  .  I've  longed  for  it  to  strike  back.  Instead,  it  was 
the  outside  which  responded.  ...  It  might  have  done  ugly 
things.  When  it  came  out,  I  could  have — beaten  the  sky 
in  despair.  I  think  you  must  have  felt  like  that ...  a 
little." 

She  spoke  as  it  were  a  voice  out  of  a  darkness,  telling  of 
intimate  things  without  intimacy.  Dennis  wondered  if  she 
had  suffered  so  much  that  the  recollection  of  her  suffering 
were  a  lifeless  memory.  The  sudden  thought  that  perhaps 
an  element  of  her  soul  had  withered  and  turned  to  stone 
stung  him  to  the  quick.  He  was  impotent  to  do  anything. 
A  mad  and  heady  anger  against  the  incongruity  of  the  room 
they  sat  in,  the  afternoon  light,  the  silly  fire  flaming  yellow 
as  though  poised  in  air,  a  curiously  tense  expectancy  of 
Maurice's  entrance  that  would  snap  the  incredible  bond 
that  united  Anne  to  him,  preyed  upon  him  and  filled  him 
with  a  torment  to  laugh,  inwardly,  at  himself,  at  human 
things,  and  futile  destinies. 

"  Yes,  that's  how  I  felt — but  only  a  little,  only  a  fraction 
of  what  you  know." 

I?!  "  Why  should  you  know  it  ?  That's  my  privilege — my 
part  of  the  bargain.  ,  .  ,  I'm  sorry  you  saw  what  you  did. 


STILL  LIFE  195 

What's  the  good  ?  But  you'll  have  the  sense  not  to  pity  me 
at  any  rate.  Then  I  don't  mind  very  much.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
I'm  glad  after  all.  ...  To  be  understood,  ever  so  little 
— I  don't  mean  that  this  is  so  very  little — is  a  strange 
sensation.  I  couldn't  tell  you  whether  I'm  glad  or  sorry." 
There  was  the  same  remoteness  in  her  voice.  Her  words 
seemed  to  deny  themselves  as  they  were  spoken.  Then 
they  seemed  to  be  apart  from  her  and  from  him,  to  be  a 
third  voice  descending  upon  them  both.  "  It  will  shatter 
like  glass,"  he  thought.  He  knew  it  would  have  to  be.  He 
tried  to  put  the  apprehension  from  his  mind  by  repeating 
to  himself  her  words  which  came  slowly  and  regularly  back 
to  him  by  no  effort  of  his  own.  Instinctively  he  sought  to 
bathe  himself  in  them  again,  with  them  to  stop  his  senses 
and  to  press  down  his  insurgent  consciousness. 

She  shattered  it  deliberately.  "  How  very  like  a  woman 
you  must  be  !  "  she  said. 

He  accepted  the  decision.  But  the  new  note,  the  new 
and  normal  sense  of  her  words  bewildered  him  by  sudden 
contrast. 

"  Why  ?    How  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  almost  stammered. 

"  I  believe  you  live  on  confidences.  That's  like  a  woman. 
Men,  most  men,  avoid  them.  Or  would  you  say  that  I 
didn't  know  men  ?  " 

"  I  live  by  making  false  ones  about  myself,  if  that's 
feminine." 

;<  They're  all  false  if  it  comes  to  that.  We  lose  our  sense 
of  proportion  :  that's  why  we  make  them.  There's  nothing 
bad  in  that ;  but  it  spoils  the  confession.  The  only  really 
true  ones  are  those  we  make  about  other  people.  The 
trouble  is  that  we  don't  often  have  the  opportunity.  People 
aren't  important  enough.  Perhaps  it's  as  well.  It  would 
be  a  strain  to  live  in  the  heights.  . .  .  Besides,  there'd  be  no 
adventure  in  speaking  the  truth  if  we  always  expected 
to  do  it.  Most  of  the  time  we  forget  that  there  is  a  truth. 
We  have  to  ;  because  we  can't  get  it  just  when  we  want  it. 
But  all  the  same,  it's  there — potentially  as  you'd  say — 


196  STILL  LIFE 

and  sometimes  we  have  to  act  by  it.  I  wonder  if  your 
experience  is  the  same  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know— yet.    Go  on." 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  But  what  to  say  ?  I  may  be  very  different 
from  others  ...  no,  I  don't  think  that  I  am,  really.  But  I 
find  that  the  truth  about  myself  is  unconscious.  I  don't 
know  it,  but  I  feel  it.  ...  Please  don't  think  I  believe  in 
female  intuitions.  It's  my  fault  if  you  do.  I  am  not  used 
to  expressing  myself.  I  mean  that  the  truth  of  myself  is  a 
particular  kind  of  seeing,  in  an  unfamiliar  light.  It's  then  I 
see  the  truth  about  other  people  and  other  things,  because 
I  am  the  truth  of  myself.  It's  as  though  we  were  meant  to 
see  things  clearly,  and  at  moments  we  managed  it — com- 
pleted our  own  design.  ..."  Anne  spoke  carefully,  enun- 
ciating each  word  as  though  she  were  tired.  She  turned 
round  towards  the  table  and  drummed  listlessly,  noise- 
lessly upon  the  corner  of  the  cloth.  Her  head  drooped  side- 
ways against  the  cushion  of  her  chair,  and  Dennis  saw  that 
she  was  pale.  "  I  can  never  make  up  my  mind,"  she  went 
on,  "  whether  it's  good  or  bad  to  be  made  as  I  am.  It 
seems  to  make  one  either  indifferent  or  reckless  concerning 
ordinary  affairs — tolerating  everything  or  tolerating  noth- 
ing. Perhaps  they're  both  wrong.  At  any  rate,  most 
people  would  say  it  was  wrong  to  refuse  to  venture  a 
farthing  to  save  a  nation  and  risk  your  life  for  a  sparrow." 

Maurice  entered  and  stood  irresolute  between  them. 
Anne  smiled  at  him  reassuringly.  "  You've  been  a  long 
while.  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  was  only  a  little  job,  but  it  was  hard  to  do.  When 
I  was  running  here,  a  nail  came  through  my  boot.  I've 
been  banging  it  down." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say  about  it  ?  Is  it  wrong  not  to 
venture  a  farthing  to  save  a  nation,  yet  to  risk  your  life 
for  a  sparrow  ?  That  was  where  we'd  arrived.  We  were 
waiting  for  an  answer." 

Maurice  played  for  safety.  The  atmosphere  was  be- 
wildering. "  It  all  depends."  He  hastened  to  cover  up 


STILL  LIFE  197 

the  foolishness,  but  he  resented  that  the  occasion  for  it 
should  have  been  offered  him.  "  I  don't  mean  that.  .  .  . 
But  how  " — his  voice  was  irritated — "  can  I  know  what 
to  answer,  without  knowing  all  that  went  before  ?  There's 
all  kinds  of  contexts  possible  for  it — a  debating  society — the 
New  Testament.  Christ  would  have  done  both.  Plato 
might  have  done  neither,  and  they'd  have  been  right,  both 
of  them.  Who  were  you  talking  about,  first  of  all?  " 

"  I  agree.  It  was  a  mean  advantage.  .  .  .  But  let's  have 
lunch.  I'll  explain  later." 

:c  You've  not  been  waiting  for  me,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  and  no.  If  you  had  come  we  should  have  begun. 
As  you  didn't  we  didn't  want  to.  Speaking  for  myself." 

Maurice  glanced  at  Dennis  in  the  chair.  "  Oh,  he'd  have 
shouted  to  me  if  he'd  been  really  hungry."  Dennis  laughed, 
and  made  for  the  kitchen.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  you've 
been  sitting  there  all  this  while  without  having  washed 
your  hands  ?  Well,  I'm  damned.  You're  responsible, 
Anne.  You've  been  listening  to  his  confessions.  What  on 
earth  has  he  been  saying  this  time  ?  " 

"  Nothing  in  particular.  He  began  by  calling  me  Mrs. 
Cradock,  and  I've  had  to  apologise  for  him  to  himself  ever 
since." 

Maurice  had  clean  forgotten  the  awkwardness  which  he 
had  stayed  in  the  garden  to  avoid.  It  was  so  natural  to  be 
with  Dennis,  to  banter  him  and  be  bantered,  that  he  had 
moved  easily.  He  was  now  very  much  at  home,  full  of 
health  and  spontaneity. 

They  sat  down  together. 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  here  ?  "  asked  Dennis. 

Maurice  looked  at  Aine,  expecting  her  to  answer. 

"  All  through  the  summer,  I  expect,"  she  said.  "  That 
is  unless  Morry  has  any  other  plans." 

l<  You  know  I  haven't,"  he  said  with  emphasis. 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  Richmond  this  morning,"  Dennis 
explained.  "  He  asked  about  you,  and  said  you  could  have 
the  cottage  for  ever  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  and  that  I 


198  STILL  LIFE 

was  to  tell  you.  He's  gone  off  walking  in  some  unknown 
place  called  the  T-a-t-r-a — that's  how  he  spells  it.  He  says 
he's  going  to  stay  in  a  hut  through  the  winter  and  try  to 
think  a  bit.  I  don't  suppose  anything  will  come  of  it.  He 
might  perhaps  write  the  books  he's  always  threatening  us 
with. . .  .  But  you  don't  know  him,  do  you  ?  "  he  turned  to 
Anne. 

"  Save  that  Morry's  quoted  a  few  sentences  of  his  at  me 
—not  at  all." 

"  He's  a  queer  fellow,  with  a  black,  triangular  kind  of 
face.  He's  very  kindly  ;  but  he  can  neither  get  near  you, 
nor  you  near  to  him.  You  never  attempt  it." 

"  He  hasn't  really  very  much  of  himself  about  his  house." 

"  No,  he  wouldn't.  .  .  .  He  always  constructs  his  sur- 
roundings, never  lets  them  grow.  I  believe  his  affections 
are  all  intellectual.  What  do  you  think,  Morry  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  about  him." 

"  Now  I  think  of  it,  he  was  always  rather  different  with 
you.  I  suppose  I'm  just  seeing  him  through  my  own 
spectacles  as  usual." 

"  He's  always  been  very  decent  to  me,"  said  Maurice. 

"  People  always  are  '  very  decent '  to  him.  I  wonder 
why  that  is  ?  "  said  Anne. 

"  There's  nothing  else  to  do,"  Dennis  explained.  "  In 
the  end  it's  always  an  appeal  ad  misericordiam,  made  to  the 
right  people.  It  works  quite  simply.  The  really  right  ones 
succumb  immediately.  The  wrong  ones  scare  him  miles 
away — like  a  blown  feather.  He  gets  too  much  entangled 
with  the  half  and  halfs  to  get  away  so  promptly,  so  he 
quivers  like  the  rabbit  in  front  of  a  snake,  long  enough  for 
the  snake  to  repent  and  be  decent.  Isn't  that  it  ?  "  Dennis 
laughed.  "  Of  course  it's  a  flagrant  swindle,  but  it's  natural 
to  him.  You  can't  complain." 

"  That  may  be,"  said  Maurice,  "  but  he's  not  the  one  to 
say  it.  For  every  person  I  know,  he  knows  a  dozen,  they 
are  all  decent  to  him,  and,  what's  more,  they  think  he's  a 
wonderful  fellow  to  get  on  with.  Why  he's  never  quar- 


STILL  LIFE  199 

relied  with  anybody.  No  one  gets  a  hold.  Instead 
everyone's  jealous  of  everyone  else  because  they  see  more 
than  their  fair  share  of  him.  This  is  really  a  great  privilege 
that  he  does  us  in  coming  to  see  us.  ...  The  worst  of  it  is 
that  we  really  are  grateful,  and  we  can't  help  showing  it." 

"  Anne  doesn't  seem  to  agree,  anyhow." 

"  Do  I  seem  ungrateful  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  I  wouldn't  say  that — unconcerned  rather." 

"  I'll  bet  she  isn't.  But,  Anne,  he  really  does  expect  you 
to  confess  that  you  appreciate  the  honour." 

"  I  must  wait  for  an  opportunity.  It'd  be  too  obvious, 
now." 

"  He'd  have  had  a  real  grievance,  if  I  hadn't  been  to 
meet  him  at  the  station,"  pursued  Maurice. 

"  At  all  events  you  forgot  all  about  it.  You  were  within 
a  minute  of  missing  me  altogether.  If  I  hadn't  half  ex- 
pected you,  I  shouldn't " 

"  There  you  are,  you  did  expect  me  after  all.  What  did 
I  say,  Anne  ?  " 

"  I  said  half-expect.  That  only  means  that  you  might 
possibly  come.  Anyhow,  it  was  worth  while  risking  a 
minute  or  two — not  more.  Besides,  I  wasn't  quite  sure  of 
the  best  way  by  the  fields.  They  would  have  been  im- 
possible; so  I  waited." 

"  Was  he  so  very  late  then  ?  "  asked  Anne.  "  He  started 
early  enough." 

"  So  I  did,"  broke  in  Maurice.  "  And  I've  just  remem- 
bered why.  I  forgot  all  about  the  list,  the  piano,  every- 
thing— except  the  box  at  the  station.  I  remembered  that. 
Moon's  going  to  bring  it  on  Monday.  I'm  awfully  sorry 
about  the  list.  But  if  you  write  by  to-night's  post  it  will  be 
there  first  thing  on  Monday  morning.  Or  you  could  ride  in 
with  Moon  and  see  for  yourself.  I  never  thought  of  that. 
. . .  You  knew  I'd  forgotten  it  ?  " 

;<  Yes.  About  half  an  hour  after  you'd  gone  I  found  it  in 
the  bedroom.  I'd  never  even  given  it  you.  It  was  my 
fault." 


200  STILL  LIFE 

"  I  don't  see  that.  I  ought  to  have  asked  for  it. ...  Well, 
it  can't  be  helped.  It  was  a  good  job  I  did  stay  by  the  pool 
after  all.  If  I'd  got  to  the  station  early,  I  should  have 
remembered  about  it  for  sure.  It  would  have  worried  me 
to  death." 

"  What's  it  all  about  ?  "  Dennis  asked  the  question  of 
both. 

"  Oh,  Anne's  keen  on  having  a  piano  here.  She  made 
out  a  list  for  me  to  take  to  Thornton's.  So  that  we  can  hire 
any  one  of  them  they've  got.  I  went  off  without  the  list. 
That's  all.  ...  Are  you  very  disappointed,  Anne  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  be  when  I  forgot  to  give  you  the  list  ? 
I'm  not  quite  so  unreasonable.  Anyhow,  it's  quite  easy 
for  me  to  go  in  with  Moon  on  Monday.  That's  better  than 
any  list  or  letter.  So  long  as  I  get  it  as  soon  as  possible 
I'm  perfectly  happy.  As  it  is,  I'm  rather  lost  without  one. 
I've  grown  accustomed  to  it.  I  don't  think  Morry  is  quite 
prepared  to  grant  me  the  right  to  have  one,"  she  laughed. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  It  just  occurred  to  me.  No,"  she  said  to  anticipate  a 
question,  "  you've  never  said  anything  of  the  sort,  or  any- 
thing calculated  to  make  me  suspect  it.  It's  sheer  calumny. 
But  it  came  into  my  head." 

"  I  was  a  fool  to  forget." 

"  But  don't  accuse  yourself  any  more.  We've  settled 
the  question.  .  .  .  Did  Dennis  tell  you  he  had  seen 
Jim  ?  " 

Maurice  was  resentful.  There  had  been  enough  truth  in 
Anne's  remark  to  put  him  on  his  defence  and  suggest  a 
sense  of  injustice.  "  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  he  told  me." 

Dennis  was  relieved  that  he  said  no  more.  He  was 
anxious  that  Anne  should  not  make  the  revelation  con- 
cerning Cradock  to  another.  The  confession,  if  it  was  one, 
was  at  any  rate  his  own,  and  he  guarded  it. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  told  me  more  than  he  did  you.  He 
couldn't  very  well.  He  told  me  nothing." 

"  And  me,  nothing.    I  must  say  I  didn't  ask  him  very 


STILL  LIFE  201 

much.  I  didn't  know  how  to  begin.  And  when  I  did,  I 
didn't  want  to  know.  So  that  all  I  got  out  of  him  was  that 
he  was  there  while  Cradock  was  packing  your  box — the 
one  at  the  station." 

Anne  glanced  at  Dennis. 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  that." 

"  You  didn't  give  me  the  chance,  after  all." 

"  No,  I  suppose  I  didn't."    Anne  kept  silence,  thinking. 

Lunch  wavered  to  an  undecided  end  in  the  silence. 
Clouds  came  up  thickly,  bearing  with  them  a  half -darkness 
and  broke  into  a  heavy  rain.  The  wind  whipped  the 
windows  with  it.  Maurice's  shoulders  shrugged.  "  Mur- 
derous weather,"  he  said  as  he  beat  the  fire  and  scattered 
the  floor  with  splintering  coal.  "  A  get-you-outside-and- 
cut-your- throat  kind  of  weather." 

"  Don't  vent  your  spleen  on  the  coal.  It's  wasteful  as 
well  as  dangerous."  Anne  gathered  together  a  few  pieces 
that  lay  within  range  of  her  toe. 

"  Didn't  you  hate  it  too  ?  "  He  pointed  with  a  poker  at 
the  window.  "  It's  not  light,  and  you  can't  call  it  dark. 
What's  more,  it  won't  be  really  decently  dark  for  a  couple 
of  hours.  It's  a  good  thing  we  managed  to  make  lunch 
drag  up  to  tea-time." 

"  It's  a  pity  we  can't  go  for  a  walk,"  ventured  Dennis, 
now  smoking  in  front  of  the  fire.  "  But  I  believe  Anne 
rather  likes  it." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  do.  A  room  never  seems  to  me 
quite  a  room  until  it's  a  shelter,  and  you  can  feel  it.  It's 
so  safe  when  the  rain  bangs  on  the  windows  and  I'm  inside. 
But  you  both  despise  that  point  of  view." 

"  But  you  see  it's  not  really  dark,"  objected  Maurice. 
"  That  makes  all  the  difference.  This  is  only  a  kind  of 
Arctic  twilight." 

"Anyhow,  I'm  going  to  leave  you  to  it,"  said  Anne, 
rising  and  moving  to  the  stairs. 

"  Why,  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Upstairs  to  my  room." 


202  STILL  LIFE 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  You're  very  inquisitive.  Meditate 
— anything." 

"  Only— won't  it  be  cold  ?  " 

"  No.  I  can  keep  myself  warm.  Besides,  I've  got  a  fire 
there.  .  .  .  And  now  may  I  go,  please  ?  " 

"  Anne,  don't ..." 

"No,  I  won't.  You  two  can  have  an  uninterrupted 
discourse." 

"  I  hope  you're  not  doing  it  for  me.  I've  got  nothing  to 
say.  Besides,  he's  in  a  desperate  mood,  evidently,"  said 
Dennis. 

"  Oh,  no.  I'm  only  consulting  myself.  Good-bye  for  an 
hour.  Do  you  think  you'll  want  any  tea,  either  of  you  ? 
Or  shall  we  leave  it  out  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  answered  Maurice. 

"  Very  well  then— no  tea.    Tell  Alice." 

Anne  disappeared. 

Maurice  was  rather  puzzled  by  her.  He  pulled  his  chair 
up  to  the  fire,  half-facing  Dennis.  He  too  lit  a  pipe  and 
was  silent,  save  that  he  remarked  again  upon  the  particular 
horror  of  the  weather. 

In  spite  of  themselves  they  listened  to  the  sound  of 
Anne's  tread  in  the  rooms  above  them.  They  were  both 
curious,  and  both  desired  not  to  listen.  But  the  strain  of 
a  deliberately  started  conversation  was  unfamiliar  to  each 
in  the  other's  presence,  and  neither  cared  to  undergo  it. 
So  they  sat  for  some  minutes  on  either  side  the  fire  without 
speaking,  almost  without  moving,  save  that  Maurice  from 
time  to  time  screwed  round  to  take  a  quick  glance  at  the 
rain-blinded  window  panes. 

Above  them  Anne  began  to  sing,  low  enough  to  be  sing- 
ing to  herself.  She  could  hear  that  they  were  not  talking, 
and  she  crooned.  But  the  house  was  so  still,  beneath  the 
regular  beat  of  the  rain  between  the  gusts,  that  they  could 
hear  her  when  her  voice  rose  above  a  low  humming.  Neither 
knew  what  she  was  singing. 


STILL  LIFE  203 

"  Does  Anne  often  sing  like  that  ?  "  said  Dennis,  almost 
whispering. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  '  like  that '  ?  "  Maurice  hardly 
understood  the  question.  Then  something  familiar  in  the 
sound  came  vaguely  into  his  memory.  "  I  don't  know. 
Yes,  she  does  sometimes.  But  not  often.  ...  At  least,  I 
don't  think  so.  .  .1  don't  know." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AGAIN  silence  descended  upon  them.  It  was  terribly  irk- 
some to  Maurice.  Between  him  and  Dennis  silence  was 
unnatural.  They  had  been  silent  together,  often  enough. 
But  this  was  different.  It  was  oppressive.  Maurice  wanted 
to  speak,  to  be  friendly  and  intimate  as  they  used  to  be, 
but  a  weight  was  on  his  tongue.  For  a  moment  he  had  the 
idea  that  Dennis  expected  him  to  be  silent  while  Anne  sang 
in  the  room  above  them,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  been 
reproved  for  a  real  offence.  Instantly,  therefore,  he 
determined  to  speak  ;  and  then  the  knowledge  that  he  had 
nothing  to  say  to  Dennis  came  upon  him.  He  never  did 
have  anything  to  say  unless  he  was  free  enough  to  be 
intimate.  A  suggestion  of  restraint  froze  the  very  fountain- 
head  of  speech.  Casting  about  to  find  whence  the  restraint 
had  come  he  became  nervous  and  impatient,  for  he  could 
not  tell  whether  Dennis  or  himself  was  at  fault.  Nor  was 
he  in  the  mood  to  consider  now,  if  he  had  ever  been  in  the 
mood  to  consider  anything  between  himself  and  his  friend. 
He  felt  that  it  must  be  due  to  some  third  thing  come 
between  them,  and  he  was  so  anxious  to  reassure  himself 
that  it  was  not  really  there,  that  he  managed,  though  with 
a  constraint  perceptible  in  his  voice  and  his  uneasy  motion 
in  his  chair,  to  say  : 

"  I  say,  Dennis,  this  isn't  going  to  make  any  difference 
to  us,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  not.  I  say  you  haven't  changed.  I 
don't  think  I  have.  Where  could  the  difference  be  then  ?  " 

Now  Maurice  was  happy  at  the  thought  that  he  had  not 
changed.  Presented  to  him  under  a  different  light,  it  com- 
forted him.  "  I'm  glad  I  haven't.  You  see,  you're  the 

204 


STILL  LIFE  205 

only  man— I  mean  it'd  make  an  awful  difference  to  me  if 
we  didn't  get  on  together  any  more.  ...  I  felt  uncomfort- 
able with  you  just  now.  There  seemed  to  be  something 
between  us — in  the  air  or  somewhere.  It  was  so  strange 
it  worried  me." 

"  But  we're  strange  to  each  other,  just  now.  At  least 
you  are  to  me.  It  takes  me  a  long  while  to  convince  my- 
self of  what  I  really  know — I  mean  that  the  change  as 
far  as  concerns  me  and  you  is  only  outward.  I  think  that's 
all  that's  the  matter  with  us." 

"  Yes,  that's  it — it  must  be."  The  solution  was  grateful 
to  him.  "  I  seem  just  the  same  to  myself.  Of  course  there's 
Anne  now."  He  tried  hard  to  reckon  in  an  instant  how 
much  Anne  had  changed  him.  During  the  last  two  days  he 
had,  normally,  been  hardly  conscious  of  her.  The  state  con- 
trasted with  his  timidities  and  apprehensions  before.  He 
felt  the  real  comfort  of  it  enough  to  be  honest,  he  did  not 
know  enough  about  it  to  be  sure  of  what  he  meant.  "  But 
Anne's  somehow  natural  to  me  now.  Do  you  know  what 
I  mean  ?  There's  Anne  and  there's  my  hand " — he 
stretched  it  out  towards  Dennis — "  it's  all  the  same  kind  of 
thing." 

Dennis  nodded.  "  That's  very  wonderful."  He  spoke 
sincerely,  because  Maurice  had  almost  convinced  him. 
"  I  think  I  can  understand.  Not  out  of  my  own  experience, 
of  course,  but  I've  often  thought  about  that  state  between 
two  people — a  man  and  a  woman.  I  wondered  whether  it 
really  did  exist.  I  could  always  see  that  it  ought  to.  What 
is  curious  is  that  I  never  thought  of  it  for  people  like  me — 
or  you.  You're  really  very  like  me.  I  could  never  see  my- 
self responding  enough.  .  .  . 

"  I  do  sometimes  think  about  getting  married.  It  would 
help  to  anchor  me,  and  I'd  like  to  have  children.  But  I 
never  get  much  farther  than  thinking  about  it.  You  see, 
a  big  woman  would  overwhelm  me.  I  believe  she'd  kill  me, 
because  I'd  know  that  I  couldn't  give  back  to  her.  She'd 
tire  of  me  of  course  ;  but  I  should  be  the  first  to  go,  half 


206  STILL  LIFE 

because  I'd  know  that  she  would  tire,  half  because  I 
shouldn't  have  the  power  to  respond.  The  only  chance  for 
me  is  the  woman  who  would  be  quiet  and  have  children 
and  look  after  them.  I've  a  good  capacity  for  affection, 
quite  genuine  affection.  I  have  for  you.  It  might  increase 
so  that  I  shouldn't  despise  her  and  be  tired  of  her.  But 
it's  a  risk,  and  then  it's  not  love.  She  might  even  be 
natural  to  me  most  of  the  time.  But  there  would  always 
be  moments  when  I'd  compare  it  with  the  real  thing,  and  I 
don't  know  what  would  happen  then.  .  .  . 

"  I  sometimes  think  I  might  manage  to  put  that  part  of 
me — the  part  that  lives  by  an  ideal — into  something  else. 
But  I  don't  think  I  could  do  it  consciously,  and  if  I  did,  I'd 
probably  make  a  terrible  hash  of  it.  I  dare  say  there's  a 
way  out ;  but  I  see  things  too  clearly.  That  paralyses  me. 
My  trouble's  simple  enough,  really ;  the  true  part  of  me 
is  an  idealist,  but  that's  always  suppressed.  I  suppress  it 
myself.  That's  why  I'm  so  deathly  critical. 

"  You're  an  idealist,  too — not  so  much  as  me,  perhaps, 
because  you're  not  so  conscious.  But,  for  all  that,  you 
may  have  a  better  chance  of  hitting  a  star.  You  say 
you've  hit  one  now.  I'll  believe  you.  You  have  to,  any- 
way. Yes,  Anne's  a  big  woman.  ..."  Maurice  did  not 
interrupt  him,  but  waited.  "  Yes.  ...  I  feel  sure  about 
that,"  he  went  on.  "  And  you  say  she's  natural  to  you, 
now. , .  .  That  may  come  too  easily. .  . .  But  you  must  have 
changed.  ...  I  know  I'm  going  back  on  what  I  said  just 
now.  I'm  only  feeling  my  way.  I  don't  mean  that  there's 
anything  to  change  our  friendship.  I  don't  feel  that.  .  .  . 
I  wish  I  knew  what  part  of  you  was  in  love  with  Anne." 

"  I  don't  know.    All  of  me,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  that's  not  it.  I  don't  see  how  it  could  be,  anyway. 
You  wouldn't  want  me,  if  that  were  true." 

"No  ...  you're  right " 

"  But  we're  coming  back  to  the  old  thing  again.  I'm 
not  sure  whether  it's  not  a  terrible  waste  of  energy  to  talk 
about  things  like  this,  You  know  about  yourself  better 


STILL  LIFE  207 

than  I  do.  But  I  imagine  that  it's  harder  for  you  to  be 
quite  honest,  now.  .  .  .  I'm  not  sure  that  it's  not  harder  for 
me  to  be  honest,  too." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  haven't  been  honest  just 
now  ?  " 

"  About  myself,  yes.  .  .  .  About  you,  I'm  not  so  certain. 
Are  you  certain  you've  been  telling  the  truth  about  your- 
self ?  " 

"  Yes I  think  so." 

"  Ah,  then  probably  I've  been  honest  too." 

"  That's  very  mysterious.    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea.  .  .  .  I'm  quite  serious.  .  .  . 
There  always  comes  a  time  when  I'm  talking  like  this  when 
the  whole  thing  seems  to  blow  away  like  smoke.  Smoke's 
hardly  good  enough — for  it's  always  just  at  the  moment 
I'm  beginning  to  see  things  very  clear.  I  was  just  going 
to  catch  hold  of  something  and  show  it  you.  '  There's  your 
naked  soul,'  and  the  whole  thing  went."  Dennis  laughed. 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  about  the  lecture  at  the  hospital  the 
other  day.  That  was  on  the  day  your  letter  came.  Things 
seem  to  be  happening  riotously  just  now.  .  .  .  What  a  devil 
of  a  lot  has  happened  !  "  He  spoke  to  himself.  "  Oh.  .  .  . 
I  was  giving  them  something  on  the  nervous  system — the 
optic  nerve.  That's  the  fifth  year  running  I've  said  the 
same  things.  I  shall  have  to  chuck  it.  Perhaps  I  was 
deadly  sick  of  it  then.  I  don't  know.  Suddenly  I  went  off 
into  a  rigmarole  about  the  unity  of  mind  and  matter.  I 
tried  to  tell  them  what  a  ghastly  plant  all  this  medical 
psychology  really  is.  Just  then  it  was  all  as  simple  as  the 
rule  of  three  to  me.  I  began  to  career  off  into  the  unity 
of  man  with  the  universe.  It  was  perfectly  plain.  Curious 
how  I  could  see  the  whole  system  working  together — no, 
not  working,  playing  like  music.  The  moment  I  was 
there,  beatific,  something  snapped  and  it  all  collapsed 
together  into  nothing.  I  remembered  where  I  was.  I 
wanted  to  run  for  my  life,  to  get  away  from  the  hideous 
people.  Then  came  the  strangest  thing  of  all.  I  thought, 


208  STILL  LIFE 

*  My  God,  that's  done  it,'  and  I  didn't  care  a  damn.  The 
only  thing  that  worried  me  was  how  not  to  let  myself 
down  with  a  run,  not  in  front  of  them  anyhow.  But  they 
really  didn't  matter. 

"  What  I  didn't  want  to  do  was  to  betray  what  I'd  been 
saying.  Do  you  understand  ?  I  wanted  to  hold  myself 
steady  on  the  right  side  of  the  line  between  them  and  us — 
me  and  the  truth.  I  remember  exactly  what  I  said.  *  I 
don't  think  that  it  is  worth  while  to  talk  about  a  form  of 
metaphysical  depression  in  a  lecture  upon  the  optic  nerve. 
In  fact  I  cannot  see  that  it  will  be  of  any  use  at  all  to  you — 
except  perhaps  those  of  you  who  are  interested  in  mental 
pathology.'  It  doesn't  sound  much  ;  but  it  meant  a  hell 
of  a  lot  to  me  then.  I  just  managed  to  save  myself  with  it, 
and  get  myself  on  the  side  of  the  elect.  It  was  touch  and 
go  ;  and,  after  all,  at  the  critical  moment,  the  thing  did  go 
smash." 

Maurice  said  nothing.  He  had  listened  to  Dennis's  story 
with  his  ears  alone,  still  wondering  what  Dennis  had  meant. 
All  that  about  love  and  affection  had  been  aimed  at  him- 
self, he  thought ;  but  then  Dennis  was  so  absurdly  self- 
conscious,  that  he  could  hardly  ever  believe  in  people  feeling 
anything  unless  they  could  tell  him  all  about  it.  There  were 
some  things  that  one  could  not  describe  after  all.  He  was 
still  engaged  in  satisfying  himself  that  Dennis  had  the 
wrong  point  of  view  when  Dennis  asked  : 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  down  here  ?  " 

"  The  same  as  usual — read.  I've  still  got  a  little  work 
— reviewing.  Cradock's  come  to  an  end,  of  course.  .  .  . 
Oh,  there'll  be  plenty  to  do  as  soon  as  I  can  get  my  books 
and  be  settled.  I've  got  a  sort  of  idea  for  a  play.  I'd  like 
to  earn  some  more  money  ;  but  I've  got  a  little  and  Anne 
has  plenty,  so  that  we  don't  have  to  worry." 

"  What's  Anne  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Why  I  suppose  she'll  do  the  same  as  usual  too."  It 
occurred  to  him  that  he  did  not  know  what  she  would  do  ; 
as  far  as  his  knowledge  of  her  went,  "  the  same  as  usual " 


STILL  LIFE  209 

was  merely  a  phrase.  "  Oh,  of  course,"  he  recollected, 
"  there's  the  piano.  That'll  be  here  early  next  week.  But 
up  till  now  we've  been  so  busy  that  there's  been  no  time  to 
do  anything." 

"  No,  I  can  imagine  that." 

"  I  wonder  what  Anne  does  do  all  day  ?  "  said  Maurice, 
as  though  questioning  himself.  It  made  him  curious  what 
she  might  be  doing  now.  He  heard  steps  that  might  have 
been  in  answer  to  his  thought  descending  the  stairs. 

"  Here  she  comes.    Why  not  ask  her  ?  "  said  Dennis. 

Maurice  was  angry  with  him  for  suggesting  it.  His 
annoyance  was  aggravated  by  the  problem  "  why  not  ?  " 
It  would  have  been  so  simple  and  straightforward  to  ask 
her,  and  he  wanted  to  know  very  much.  But  for  him  then 
it  was  quite  impossible.  Standing  at  the  stair-foot,  the 
wavering  light  from  the  fire  glancing  upon  her  face,  Anne 
became  actual  again  to  him. 

"  You've  not  been  talking  very  much,"  she  said.  "  I 
can  hear  perfectly  well  whether  you're  saying  anything ; 
though,  unfortunately,  I  can't  hear  what  you're  saying. 
I've  been  up  there  nearly  two  hours.  You  can't  have  been 
talking  more  than  ten  minutes." 

"  Well,  there  wasn't  anything  particular  to  talk  about," 
said  Maurice. 

"  Isn't  that  rather  queer  for  you  two  ?  " 

Dennis  was  eager  to  dissociate  himself  from  the  in- 
clusion, he  hardly  knew  why.  "  It's  not  so  very  unusual," 
he  said,  "  in  fact  it's  rather  the  normal  condition — unless 
I'm  violently  denouncing  the  hospital.  He's  as  tired  as  I 
am  of  that  now,  so  there  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  talk 
about.  It's  quite  simple." 

Anne  seemed  not  to  hear  him.  "  Won't  you  have  some 
light  now  ?  "  she  asked,  while  she  reached  down  a  brass 
lamp  from  a  shelf  by  the  door.  They  watched  her  light  it. 
The  full  flood  of  bright  light  poured  upon  her  for  a  second. 
Then  the  green  shade  obscured  her  again,  save  that  her 
hands  still  rested  on  the  edge  of  the  shade  and  shone  like  a 


210  STILL  LIFE 

small  point  of  radiance  in  the  surrounding  darkness.  She 
might  have  been  materialised  out  of  the  dark.  With  her 
hands  on  the  table  she  bent  forward  towards  the  lamp  as 
one  bends  to  shelter  a  flickering  flame.  Maurice  admired 
her.  To  him  she  hazily  appeared  very  beautiful.  He 
wondered  at  her  as  he  would  wonder  at  the  bright  moon- 
light and  shadow  she  loved  to  point  out  to  him.  The  im- 
pulse to  criticise  and  appraise  her  was  foremost  in  Dennis. 
Anne  was  more  actual,  more  a  woman  to  him,  and  he  did 
his  utmost  to  hold  that  nearness  steady  in  his  mind.  It 
was  a  potential  equality.  But  he  found  that  it  would  slip 
from  him.  Therefore  he  spoke. 

"  We — Morry  was  wondering  what  you  do  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  What  I  do  ?  "  she  repeated,  looking  in  the  half-light 
first  at  Dennis,  almost  peering  after  the  hidden  expression 
of  his  face,  then  towards  Maurice.  He  was  plainly  confused 
by  Dennis's  words  ;  and  he  shook  his  head  in  dissent. 

"  No,  not  really,"  he  said.  "  Dennis  asked  me  what  I 
was  going  to  do,  and  I  told  him  ;  and  then  he  wanted  to 
know  what  you  were  going  to  do.  I  said  the  same  as  usual, 
but  I  wasn't  at  all  sure  what  that  meant.  That's  all.  .  .  . 
Dennis  has  a  rotten  way  of  suddenly  picking  a  question  out 
of  the  past.  He  makes  it  sound  so  different." 

"  Yes.  I  know,"  she  said.  "  And  in  any  case,  how  could 
you  say,  when  I  hardly  know  myself  ?  "  A  quiet  and 
steady  challenge  was  in  the  words.  Maurice  was  warmed 
by  the  vindication.  With  Anne  on  his  side  he  was  proof 
against  an  insidious  malice  that  seemed  at  times  to  emerge 
in  Dennis,  and  so  quickly  disappeared  that  he  could  never 
be  certain  that  it  had  really  been.  He  was  emboldened  to 
ask : 

"  But  what  do  you  really  do,  Anne  ?  Tell  us."  He 
would  have  said  "  tell  me  "  :  but  before  Dennis  he  could 
not. 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell.  Do  you  think  I'm  mysterious  ? 
I,  really  do  nothing — that  is  I  sit  and  dream — think — if  you 
prefer  it,  for  hours  on  end — when  I  have  the  chance." 


STILL  LIFE  211 

"  But  what  about  ?  " 

"  About  you  and  him — and  Alice  and  Jim."  A  shade  of 
petulance  was  in  her  gesture  at  the  silly  rhyme  that  inter- 
rupted like  a  provoking  child.  Then  she  smiled  at  herself. 
"  But  mostly,  about  myself." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  some  of  the  things  you  thought  about 
yourself,"  said  Maurice.  "  Don't  you,  Dennis  ?  "  he  con- 
cluded lamely. 

Again  Anne  wondered  at  him.  He  managed  to  appeal 
to  her  and  to  hurt  her  at  once.  "  But  it  doesn't  really 
matter."  The  thought  that  Dennis  was  watching  and 
listening  moved  her.  "  I  think  I'll  try  to  tell  you  one  of 
these  days,  Morry.  Perhaps  it  would  be  worth  while  for 
you  to  know." 

"  I  wish  you  would." 

Dennis  recoiled  into  himself.  He  had  not  only  antag- 
onised Anne,  but  he  despised  himself  for  the  way  in  which 
he  had  done  it,  by  insinuating  criticism  against  Maurice. 
He  did  not  care  that  he  had  betrayed  Maurice.  Uppermost 
in  his  mind  when  he  thought  of  that  was  the  conviction 
that  Maurice  needed  it,  needed  to  be  made  insecure,  other- 
wise he  would  go  on  deceiving  himself.  Again  he  despised 
himself  for  glozing  his  motives.  He  wanted  to  stop  Anne 
from  wasting  herself  on  Maurice.  It  might  well  go  on  for 
ever  as  far  as  Maurice  was  concerned.  .  .  .  Ridiculous — as 
if  he  could  prevent  Anne  from  doing  what  she  deliberately 
chose  to  do.  For  a  second  he  wondered  whether  it  was 
deliberate,  really.  He  would  like  to  know  how  it  had 
happened.  Anyhow,  Maurice  could  not  have  done  it  by 
himself.  Anne  must  have  chosen,  at  least  met  him  half-way. 
What  was  the  good  of  trying  to  stop  her  ?  What  con- 
ceivable right  had  he  to  pronounce  on  her?  It  was 
absurd. 

The  real  fact  was  that  he  didn't  understand  her  any  more 
now  than  he  had  understood  before.  All  that  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  was  to  send  her  to  Maurice's  side,  to  parry 
on  his  behalf  all  the  blows  he  aimed.  What  was  he  after 


212  STILL  LIFE 

in  trying  to  hold  them  apart  ?  There  was  Maurice  of 
course,  but  he  would  be  the  same  whatever  happened.  He 
wasn't  thinking  of  him.  What  concern  of  his  was  it  that 
Anne  should  not  give  herself  to  Maurice  ?  He  knew  well 
enough  that  he  was  concerned,  even  passionately  con- 
cerned, about  it.  The  idea  that  he  might  be  in  love  with 
her  did  not  worry  him.  He  always  had  been,  more  or  less  ; 
every  sensible  person  was.  Was  it  that  Anne  derogated 
from  herself  ?  She  didn't.  She  was  just  the  same,  only 
more  perfectly  herself.  Besides,  he  had  never  troubled 
that  she  had  been  married  to  Cradock  ;  he  had  only  begun 
to  think  about  it  when  she  had  left  him.  That  was  curious. 
The  idea  of  her  with  Cradock,  ever  since  he  could  remember 
her  years  ago,  overawed  him  now.  He  didn't  want  her  to 
have  to  go  through  that  again.  Oh,  he  was  being  silly 
about  her.  As  if  she  didn't  know  infinitely  more  about  it 
than  he  ! 

Dennis  was  disillusioned  and  inclined  to  be  cynical  of 
himself.  Anne  and  Maurice  were  talking  about  bedrooms. 

"  Morry  says  you  won't  mind  a  camp  bed  in  the  front 
room,"  said  Anne. 

"  No,  I'm  used  to  it.  ...  I  think  it's  the  best  room  in  the 
house." 

"  Anne's  going  to  have  the  piano  there,  when  it  comes," 
said  Maurice. 

"  Oh."  Dennis  was  indifferent.  He  would  rather  hear 
of  Anne's  intentions  from  herself.  At  all  events  he  did  not 
need  Maurice  to  interpret  for  him.  He  glanced  at  Anne. 

;<  Yes,  we  arranged  it  this  morning."  She  spoke  very 
remotely. 

"  So  you're  improving,  Morry,"  he  said. 

"  Improving  ?    How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  haven't  forgotten  why  you  moved  from  Chelsea 
to  Vauxhall  ?  " 

Maurice  laughed  uneasily.  "  That's  all  past.  I  was  only 
a  fool  then.  Because  I  hadn't  anything  in  my  head,  I  had 
to  find  excuses.  Why,  you  said  that  yourself."  Maurice 


STILL  LIFE  213 

explained  to  Anne.  "  I  moved  out  of  my  rooms  in  Chelsea, 
because  the  man  next  door  would  play  the  piano. ...  I  don't 
know  why  Dennis  should  drag  it  up  just  now.  It's  all 
different.  He  knows  what  it  was  as  well  as  I  do.  I  was  all 
nervy  then — impatient  to  be  doing  something,  and  nothing 
in  my  head.  Anything  would  have  irritated  me.  If  it 
hadn't  been  the  piano,  it  would  have  been  the  milkman. 
I  had  to  have  an  excuse.  Of  course,  I  was  quite  serious  at 
the  time.  ...  I  moved  to  the  Surrey  side.  But  you  under- 
stand the  condition  I  was  in,  don't  you  ?  " 

Anne  nodded  thoughtfully.  "  Quite  well,"  she  said. 
"  I  did  the  very  same  thing  myself — in  Leipsic  of  all 
places." 

Maurice  crept  under  the  generous  wing  and  felt  strong. 
Then  he  was  almost  ashamed  of  the  support  Anne  had 
given  him.  Shame  at  the  cowardice  of  this  shame  chased 
it  out  of  his  mind.  He  rose  from  his  chair  and  sat  on  the 
floor  at  Anne's  feet.  He  took  her  hand  which  rested  on 
the  chair-arm  and  placed  it  against  his  cheek.  It  was  cool. 
His  own  face  was  flushed.  He  felt  Anne's  other  hand  steal 
round  his  face,  gently  clasping  his  forehead  and  caressing 
his  hair.  His  own  insufficiency  tormented  him.  He  wanted 
to  take  Anne's  hand  and  put  it  away  from  his  forehead,  to 
assert  himself  independent  and  free.  He  was  too  much  of  a 
coward.  The  conviction  crushed  him  into  collapse ;  he 
was  inert,  with  a  mere  shadow  of  a  control  over  his 
words. 

"  That  business  with  the  piano  at  Chelsea  was  only 
cowardice.  I  don't  see  how  one  can  help  being  a  coward. 
Sometimes  I  forget  about  it,  that's  all.  But  what's  the  use 
of  pretending  ?  The  only  reason  that  keeps  us  from  being 
really  honest  is  sheer  cowardice.  And  what's  cowardice — 
my  cowardice,  anyway  ?  It's  only  a  cursed,  silly,  empty 
pride.  I'm  too  proud  to  say  I'm  a  liar.  How  the  hell  do 
you  get  out  of  that  ?  "  His  words  contrasted  with  the 
weary  note  in  his  voice.  There  was  no  answer,  save 
that  Anne  passed  the  tips  of  the  fingers  of  her  encircling 


214  STILL  LIFE 

hand  gently  over  his  forehead.  He  felt  that  the  motion 
was  instinctive,  almost  physical  and  unconscious,  while 
she  herself  was  far  away  intent  on  what  he  said.  "  Oh, 
I'm  a  fool,"  he  said  and  laughed,  evilly  contemptuous  of 
himself. 

Then  he  burst  out.  "  My  God,  and  that's  cowardice,  too. 
I  haven't  got  the  courage  to  stick  by  my  own  words,  even 
when  they're  the  best  I've  got.  No  wonder  I ..." 

"  What's  the  use  .  .  . ? "  said  Dennis. 

"  There  isn't  any." 

"  But  listen.  Do  you  think  you're  any  worse  than  me  ? 
I  can  tell  you  that  you  aren't.  ..." 

"  That  doesn't  make  it  any  better." 

"  Yes,  it  does — better  for  you,  anyhow.  Listen,  man. 
I  know  what  you're  driving  at.  You  call  it  cowardice,  be- 
cause you  won't  face  yourself.  You  call  it  pride  because 
you  think  if  you  did  face  yourself  you'd  have  to  call  it 
empty,  and  you  won't  do  that.  But  the  truth  is,  you  don't 
know  yourself.  How  should  you  ?  Do  I  know  myself  ? 
I'm  self-conscious  and  so  are  you,  but  that's  all  on  the  out- 
side. The  inside's  just  unknown.  When  you  say  that 
sometimes  you  manage  to  forget  about  the  cowardice, 
that's  only  words.  Then  sometimes,  your  known  and  your 
unknown,  your  self-consciousness  and  yourself — call  them 
anything — j  ust  come  together.  You  forget  you're  a  coward , 
because  you  know  you  aren't.  It  is  no  use  telling  me  that 
when  you  were  beside  that  pool  this  morning  you  only 
forgot.  You  weren't. 

"  I  don't  say  we  aren't  cowards,  and  I  don't  say  what 
you  said  isn't  true — but  it's  only  half  the  truth.  The 
reason  why  you  aren't  honest,  is  because  you  can't  be.  If 
you  could  tell  the  last  word  of  truth  about  your  self-con- 
sciousness, it  would  only  be  a  lie  after  all.  You  may  be  a 
coward  in  not  telling  the  last  word,  but  I  know  there's  more 
in  it,  and  that  is  that  somehow  you  know  always  that  it 
would  be  a  lie."  He  turned  to  Anne.  "  Isn't  that  true, 
Anne  ?  "  he  said. 


STILL  LIFE  215 

"  Very  likely,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I'll  believe  that,"  went  on  Maurice,  "  but  that 
won't  get  me  past  my  conviction  that  I  am  a  coward,  will 
it  ?  I  know  I'm  afraid  to  tell  the  truth,  when  there's  only 
the  truth  in  front  of  me.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  if 
I  afterwards  believe  it  wasn't  going  to  be  the  whole  truth. 
No,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  if  I  were  really  to  act  by  what  you 
say,  I  should  only  be  a  bigger  liar  than  ever.  You  say  that 
it's  only  because  we  can't  ever  tell  the  truth  about  our- 
selves. I  don't  deny  it.  But  is  that  a  reason  why  I  should 
pretend  to  have  a  feeling  that  I  haven't,  and  pretend  not 
to  have  a  feeling  that  I  have  ?  That's  what  I  mean  by 
cowardice,  and  that's  the  kind  of  coward  I  am.  You  want 
to  make  out  that  I  do  it  because  I'm  afraid  of  telling  a  lie 
about  myself.  I  know  that  I  do  it  because  I'm  afraid. ..." 
He  was  going  to  say,  "  afraid  of  hurting  other  people,"  but 
something  held  the  words  back,  and  he  stopped,  auto- 
matically repeating,  "  because  I'm  afraid." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Anne  quietly. 

He  turned  round  and  looked  at  her  face,  alarmed  as 
though  she  had  heard  his  unspoken  words.  She  only 
smiled  at  him.  "  That's  all  there  is,"  he  said. 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  what  you  were  afraid 
of." 

"  So  I  was,  but  I  don't  know  now."  He  paused  half-way 
from  raising  himself  from  the  floor.  "  At  all  events,  you've 
cured  me,  Dennis." 

He  stood  between  Dennis  and  Anne,  looking  vacantly  at 
the  space  between  them.  Standing  apart  from  them,  yes, 
he  was  better.  He  thrust  one  hand  into  his  pocket  and  with 
the  other  pushed  back  his  hair  from  his  forehead,  giving 
a  quick  backward  jerk  to  his  head  as  if  to  shake  himself  free 
of  something.  In  his  mind  he  searched  for  the  reason  for 
Dennis's  words.  It  was  strange  that  they  had  nothing  to  do 
with  what  he  called  his  cowardice,  for  Dennis  generally 
understood.  That  he  should  have  mistaken  him  was  almost 
incredible.  A  suspicion  that  Dennis  had  done  it  wilfully 


216  STILL  LIFE 

came  into  his  mind  and  baffled  him.  He  began  to  be 
frightened  of  a  new  and  inscrutable  Dennis,  and  though  for 
a  moment  he  thought  that  Dennis  might  never  have  been 
a  coward,  he  rejected  it  immediately.  He  was  sure  that 
Dennis  knew  what  he  meant. 

Another  thought  emerged  into  the  vacant  turmoil. 
Dennis  had  tried  to  prevent  him  from  hurting  Anne,  by 
covering,  magnifying  and  changing  what  he  had  said.  He 
could  see  that  quite  plainly  now.  Instead  of  resenting  it, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  thought  Dennis  a  fool,  and 
he  had  a  moment  of  intense  superiority  to  him.  As  if  Anne 
could  be  deceived  as  to  what  he  had  meant !  He  was 
coward  enough  to  avoid  saying  the  last  actual  words,  simply 
because  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  hear  them  spoken 
and  echoing  terribly  through  the  room.  But  Anne  under- 
stood ;  of  that  he  was  certain.  And  instantly  he  flamed 
against  Anne's  understanding.  Her  generosity  choked 
him.  In  a  tyrannous  vision  he  saw  himself  deliberately 
hurting,  hurting  her.  He  was  catching  hold  of  her  arm  and 
twisting  it  horribly  and  slowly,  while  she  stood  quite  still. 
His  teeth  pressed  against  each  other  and  the  muscles  of  his 
jaw  stiffened.  While  he  watched,  he  knew  that  he  was  too 
great  a  coward  to  do  it.  "  Too  great  a  coward  to  do  it," 
he  thought,  "  why,  I'm  too  great  a  coward  to  say  it."  He 
was  still  tossing  the  hair  back  from  his  forehead,  when  he 
laughed.  He  knew  that  his  laugh  was  like  a  hot  barb  enter- 
ing into  Anne's  flesh,  and  yet,  though  his  impulse  was  to 
stop,  he  could  not. 

"  I  sometimes  think  there's  a  devil  in  me,"  he  said 
quietly.  "  Yes,  really,  I  mean  it.  I  feel  sometimes  there's 
positive  evil  in  me.  You  don't  know  the  way  I  can  hate 
myself.  That's  what  I  mean  by  the  evil.  When  I  laugh  at 
myself,  it  might  be  some  evil  power  laughing  at  my  weak- 
ness. Yes,  that's  what  it  is,  it's  a  power  laughing  at  my 
weakness.  .  .  .  Yes  " — he  spoke  as  though  he  were  medita- 
ting with  himself — "  that's  the  real  evil — the  knowledge 
that  we  haven't  the  power  to  do  what  we  desire.  Isn't 


STILL  LIFE  217 

that  right  ?  "  The  sound  of  his  voice  changed  at  the 
question.  It  was  hopeful  instead  of  despairing,  triumphant 
after  overwhelmed. 

;'  That's  a  discovery,"  he  went  on  eagerly.  "  Don't  you 
see  ?  It's  evil  when  I'm  conscious  of  a  desire,  and  con- 
scious that  I  haven't  the  courage  to  realise  it.  Why,  you 
can  see  why  it's  evil.  It's  acknowledging  defeat  inside 
yourself.  It's  a  kind  of  conflict  with  no  issue,  and  conflict 
only  takes  its  meaning  from  the  result.  But  this  kind  is 
one  that  absolutely  depends  on  there  being  no  result,  and 
you  can  see  that  that  simply  must  be  evil. 

"  God,  how  plain  it  is.  ...  And  I  can  see  the  way  out, 
can't  you  ?  Of  course,  there  are  two.  You  can  do  what 
you  desire.  No,  that's  no  good.  That  chance  is  gone. 
The  evil  begins  because  it's  gone.  The  only  thing  to  do  is 
to  see  that  you  don't  desire  what  you  thought  you  desired. 
And  you  don't.  For  instance. ..."  He  was  on  the  point  of 
saying  that  he  desired  to  torture  Anne,  but  he  stopped  him- 
self. 

"  Well,  you  don't  really  want  to  do  all  the  things  you 
think  you  want  to.  ...  But  what  if  you  don't  quite  know  ? 
You  don't  know  whether  it's  courage  or  cowardice  which 
stops  you.  Yes,  that's  it.  Most  of  the  time  we  don't 
know.  Mostly,  it  seems  like  cowardice.  I'm  not  sure,  but 
I've  an  idea  that  it's  only  sentimentality.  I  sentimentalise 
about  a  person  who  always  acts  on  his  impulse  ;  but  after 
all  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should.  Perhaps  it's  only  the 
easier  way.  When  I  don't  act  on  impulse  I  always  know 
that  I'll  have  to  go  through  any  amount  of  this  torment 
about  cowardice — and  that  doesn't  seem  to  be  very 
cowardly,  does  it  ? 

"  Where  have  I  got  to  ?  It  all  seems  very  convenient 
anyway.  If  you  act  on  impulse,  well  and  good,  you  do  it 
unconsciously,  so  that  must  be  all  right.  And  so  soon  as 
you're  conscious  of  an  impulse,  it  isn't  an  impulse  any 
longer,  so  there's  not  the  slightest  reason  why  you  should 
act  on  it  at  all — in  fact  there's  every  reason  why  you 


218  STILL  LIFE 

shouldn't.  Very  comfortable  indeed — very  comfortable." 
Maurice  laughed  quite  happily.  "  Of  course  you  always 
go  on  thinking  you're  a  coward,  but  that's  one  of  the 
diseases  we  inherit,  we  suppose.  .  .  .  It's  wonderful  what  a 
lot  a  rotten  argument  will  do.  .  .  ." 

"  That's  all  right,  then,"  said  Dennis,  "  but  you  know  it's 
not  so  very  different  from  what  I  said  before." 

Maurice  pondered  a  moment.  "  Isn't  it  exactly  the 
same  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it  is." 

"  Well,  that's  funny.  What  you  said  sounded  all  wrong 
at  the  time.  I  wonder  why." 

"  I  think  it's  because  it  was  all  wrong,"  said  Anne.  Her 
words  were  unexpected  and  Maurice  turned  sharply  to- 
wards her.  She  bent  forward,  leaning  her  chin  upon  her 
hands  and  her  elbows  upon  her  knees,  and  went  on  speak- 
ing slowly.  "  You  see  you  were  being  honest  then,  feeling 
honestly  at  any  rate.  Dennis  was  making  excuses.  He 
may  have  thought  it  was  true,  but  he  didn't  believe  it  was. 
Neither  did  you,  of  course." 

"  What  about  what  I  said  just  now — about  evil  ? 
Wasn't  that  true,  either  ?  " 

"  Not  very.  Perhaps  you  started  with  something  true, 
but  you  couldn't  keep  it  up.  You  begin  to  theorise  about 
it  and  you  lose  the  truth  you  hold.  You're  happy  enough 
to  lose  it,  too — why  not  ?  " 

"  You  mean  I  am  a  coward  then  ?  " 

"  Yes — you  are.  There's  nothing  very  terrible  in  that. 
But  what's  the  good  of  trying  to  forget  it  ?  You  know 
what  you  feel,  and  yet  you  won't  say  it.  I  can  feel  you 
holding  it  back.  And  what  happens  ?  It  only  turns  in 
upon  itself  and  gets  contorted  and  exaggerated.  That's 
when  the  evil  begins,  I  think.  Why  aren't  you  quite 
honest  ?  You  think  it's  because  you're  afraid  of  hurting 
me,  or  anybody  else.  But  that's  only  an  insult  to  me.  It 
might  hurt  for  a  moment,  but  I  shouldn't  mind — not  one 
bit.  And  it'd  be  easy  to  get  rid  of  it,  too,  for  that  matter. 


STILL  LIFE  219 

But  the  real  truth  is  that  you're  afraid  of  hurting  yourself. 
You  feel  that  it  might  hurt  me,  but  it  would  certainly  hurt 
you  more.  That's  why  you  are  a  coward.  But  you  know 
it  as  well  as  I  do.  What  you  do  forget  sometimes  is 
that  I  know  it  as  well  as  you  do.  It  isn't  new  to  me 
either.  I  have  known  it  all  the  while.  But  I  hate  to 
think  that  you  feel  that  you  are  hiding  it  successfully 
from  me." 

Although  he  was  surprised  by  the  words,  Maurice  was  not 
hurt.  There  was  no  note  of  indignation  or  recrimination 
in  them  to  rouse  him  to  hostility.  Curiously  he  thought, 
"I'm  glad  of  that  "  ;  and  he  was  truly  glad,  for  he  knew 
that  if  there  had  been  the  faintest  hint  of  a  pretext  he 
would  have  been  sullen  in  his  own  defence.  Instead  of  that 
he  felt  safe.  Anne  had  touched  him  very  close,  closer 
than  he  had  ever  been  touched  before,  consciously,  yet  so 
touched  him  that  the  contact  was  like  a  caress.  A  burden 
had  been  removed  from  him,  and  his  responsibility  for 
himself  seemed  to  dissolve  away. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  said,  "  but  it's  hard  to  realise  that 
you're  understanding  me.  And  very  often  I  resent  it.  I 
can't  help  it.  I  feel  that  I  don't  want  to  be  understood, 
that  I  lose  too  much  by  it.  I  want  you  to  understand  me 
only  when  I  ask  you  to,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  I  want  to 
be  a  mystery.  That's  just  my  nature.  But  it  isn't  really 
my  nature — at  least  I  don't  think  it  is — when  I  try  to 
deceive  you  about  what  I'm  thinking  or  feeling.  But  then 
why  do  I  do  it  ?  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  won't  after 
this." 

"  Perhaps  not — but,  I  think  you  will  all  the  same,"  said 
Anne.  "  And  that  will  be  right,"  she  continued  after  a 
pause.  Then  she  raised  her  head  a  little  and  looked  at  him. 
The  look  in  her  eyes  held  his.  He  knew  that  he  would 
always  remember  it.  He  knew  he  saw  pity  there,  and  he 
thought  that  he  saw  fear — for  he  wondered  about  it  after- 
wards ;  but  what  held  him  altogether  was  the  calm  of  her 
eyes,  not  the  calm  of  insensibility  or  resolution,  but  of  com- 


220  STILL  LIFE 

plete  repose,  of  balance,  of  harmony.  Yes,  that  was  the 
word.  The  very  word  was  mysterious  to  him.  It  had  for 
years,  even  of  his  life,  been  dear  to  him.  Seldom  had  he 
any  glimmering  of  its  meaning,  but  there  were  days  when 
it  had  passed  from  being  merely  a  word  to  a  symbol  of 
something  remotely  seen,  infinitesimally  apprehended.  He 
found  himself  speaking  the  word  now  inwardly  to  his  own 
mind. 

"  Yes,  that  will  be  right,"  said  Anne  again,  as  though  in 
answer  to  some  question  out  of  herself. 

Suddenly  Anne's  words  chilled  Maurice.  With  them 
she  put  him  away  for  ever.  He  wanted  to  cry  out 
to  her:  "  Oh,  don't  say  that,  .  .  .  don't  say  that." 
He  could  not.  Instead  he  gathered  his  strength  to- 
gether. 

"  Anne,  I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  said  Maurice. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

He  pondered  a  moment.  "  Yes,  I  am  sure,"  he  said. 
"  You  listen,  too,  Dennis." 

Maurice's  manner  of  speech  was  changed.  His  voice  was 
slow  and  even,  monotone  and  almost  drawling. 

"  I  had  a  lover  once.  It  seems  a  long  while  ago,  but  it 
can't  be  much  more  than  two  years — in  Paris.  I  was  as 
old  as  I  am  now  (thus  he  answered  himself  about  to  say 
*  I  was  very  young  ').  I  didn't  want  to  be  her  lover,  but 
I  wanted  to  love  her,  and  I  wanted  her  to  love  me.  I  think 
it  was  because  I  was  miserable  and  alone.  I  went  there  to 
get  away  from  people,  and  when  I  got  there  I  envied 
every  man  who  had  someone  to  talk  to  in  a  cafe.  It 
was  strange,  because  I  loved  to  be  in  a  place  where 
there  were  many  people  and  nobody  took  any  notice 
of  me. 

"  I  remember  the  first  time  I  went  to  that  cafe.  I  sat  in 
a  corner  at  a  little  round  table  with  my  back  to  the  people. 
I'd  reckoned  that  I  had  a  franc  to  spend  in  the  cafe  every 
night,  so  I  drank  two  large  beers,  because  I  knew  the  word 
for  that,  because  they  would  last  me  a  long  while,  and 


STILL  LIFE  221 

because  they  made  just  a  franc  together.  When  the  time 
came  to  go — it  was  just  twelve  o'clock — I  put  the  franc 
under  the  saucer  and  got  up  for  my  hat. 

"  A  little  waiter  with  big  moustaches — I  found  after  he 
was  called  Leonce — came  up  to  clear  away.  1  had  my  back 
to  him,  as  I  was  doing  up  my  coat.  Then  I  heard  him  say 
behind  me  : 

"  '  Et  la  service  ?  ' 

"  I  heard  quite  plainly.  I  could  have  written  out  the 
words.  I  turned  round  to  him  and  saw  him  angrily  picking 
up  my  money.  But  I  could  not  understand  what  he  meant. 
I  must  have  known  what  he  meant,  but  it  terrified  me  so 
that  my  brain  went  still.  Then  he  said  it  again  fiercely  : 
1  Et  la  service  ?  ' 

"  I  stared  at  him  and  knew  that  my  lips  were  trembling. 
He  just  threw  himself  back  (ridiculous,  like  a  stage  French- 
man) and  looked  at  me.  Then  I  realised  what  was  the 
matter.  Suddenly  I  went  sick  and  faint.  I  pulled  out 
some  coppers  and  tried  to  say  something  like  '  pardon.' 
But  I  knew  immediately  that  he  was  convinced  that  I  had 
done  it  deliberately.  He  said,  '  Mer-ci,  Monsieur,'  in  a  way 
that  withered  me,  and  as  I  pushed  my  way  through  the 
swinging  doors  with  my  coat  all  open  and  my  hat  in  my 
hand  I  knew  the  people  were  laughing  at  me,  that  the 
waiter  was  talking  to  them  about  me.  I  remember  the 
great  stride  with  which  I  burst  into  the  street.  I  was  blind 
with  insult  and  shame,  and  I  walked  to  the  river,  all  the 
way  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  so  that  no  one  should  see 
me  or  be  able  to  speak  to  me.  I  forget  what  happened 
afterwards.  It  was  three  days  before  I  had  enough 
courage  to  go  into  that  cafe  again,  and  then  I  went  in  by 
another  door  and  sat  in  the  farthest  corner.  I  don't  know 
why  I  never  thought  of  going  to  another.  Perhaps  I'd 
already  seen  the  woman.  Either  that  or  I  felt  that  I  was 
bound  to  find  someone  there. 

"  But  all  that  doesn't  matter  at  all.  I  only  told  you  that 
for  you  to  see  the  condition  I  was  in.  I  found  my  girl 


222  STILL  LIFE 

eventually.  Yes,  I  must  have  been  in  love  with  her.  I 
remember  how  in  the  three  weeks  after  we  first  met  we 
used  to  walk  in  the  cold  weather  up  the  Kue  de  la  Sorbonne 
and  she  used  to  laugh.  When  she  was  happy  she  used  to 
have  all  sorts  of  quick  movements,  throwing  her  head  for- 
wards and  backwards  ;  and  she  had  a  new  hat  with  a  long 
wavy  brown  feather  that  hung  down  behind,  the  kind  of 
hat  you  see  in  old-fashioned  pictures  of  women  on  horse- 
back. I  remember  the  way  that  feather  used  to  wave 
better  than  anything  else  in  the  time  before  we  were 
lovers.  That  happened  on  the  day  before  I  had  to  come 
back  to  England.  I  had  to  go  back.  I  was  still  keeping 
terms. 

"  Yes,  I  was  in  love  with  her.  I  remember  how  I  used  to 
be  sick  with  a  sort  of  fever  all  day  until  she  came  to  see  me. 
That  last  day  we  were  together  in  the  cafe  all  the  evening 
with  a  friend  of  hers  called  Simone,  who  wore  a  brown 
velvet  hat  with  a  big  brim  with  an  edging  of  brown  fur. 
She  was  very  fond  of  me,  too,  and  always  called  me  '  Mon- 
sieur Maurice.'  But  I  was  very  wretched.  After  some 
time  Simone  went,  but  just  before  she  looked  at  me  with 
a  smile  I've  never  forgotten — yes,  it  was  a  wonderful  smile. 
I  can't  remember  anything  so  kind — and  said  to  Madeleine  : 
*  II  va  chez  vous,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  C'est  bien.  C'est  triste 
qu'il  va  partir.'  She  was  looking  at  me  all  the  while. 
Madeleine  was  at  my  side.  '  Vous  allez  coucher  ensemble  ? ' 
I  just  looked  at  her.  I  was  nervous  and  frightened.  I 
didn't  know  how  to  explain.  ...  I  felt  that  I  was  in  the 
middle  of  something  I  didn't  understand,  something  in- 
calculable. .  .  .  '  Vous  ne  1'avez  pas  encore  fait  ?  '  I 
dropped  my  eyes  to  the  table.  I  knew  Simone  was 
looking  at  Madeleine.  Then  I  managed  to  glance  at 
Madeleine  too.  She  was  curiously  quiet  and  sad.  Simone 
went  away. 

"  We  didn't  stay  long  after  that.  Madeleine  said  she 
hated  the  place,  and  that  we  mustn't  stay  there  any  longer. 
And  so  we  went.  It  was  very  dark  in  the  block  of  flats 


STILL  LIFE  223 

where  she  lived  and  I  had  to  go  quietly  so  that  they  should 
not  hear  me.  When  we  got  to  her  room,  she  kept  on 
saying  to  me  '  tu  m'aimes.'  I  don't  remember  what  I  said. 
I  don't  remember  either  how  she  got  into  bed.  Somehow 
I  think  that  I  was  looking  at  the  pictures  on  the  wall  with 
my  back  turned  to  her.  I  turned  round  to  go  and  sit  on 
the  bed  beside  her.  Then  I  lay  beside  her  on  the  top  of  the 
bed.  I  remember  the  strange  feeling  of  the  coverlet  be- 
tween us.  It  was  hard,  and  it  outlined  her  back.  It  didn't 
strike  me  at  the  time  that  it  was  funny  she  should  turn  her 
back  to  me.  She  rose  on  her  elbow  and  looked  at  me.  She 
was  biting  her  lip,  and  she  had  been  crying.  *  Tu  me  fais 
mal,'  she  said  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  away  from 
me.  Her  hair  was  dark  brown,  and  it  spread  all  over  the 
pillow.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  that's  not  really  what  I  wanted  to  say  at  all.  It 
was  some  days  before  that  happened.  I  was  living  right 
at  the  top  of  a  little  hotel  near  the  Luxembourg,  where  two 
tramlines  met.  Every  day  she  used  to  come  for  me  at 
seven,  and  we  used  to  have  dinner  together  and  then  go 
on  to  the  cafe.  The  only  way  I  could  get  through  the  day 
till  then  was  by  staying  in  bed.  I  hardly  ever  got  up  before 
five  o'clock.  I  used  to  shave  myself  before  the  mirror  in 
the  wardrobe,  and  I  used  to  arrange  it  so  that  by  leaving 
the  door  open  I  could  see  her  as  she  came  upstairs.  I  cut 
myself  very  often,  and  I  cut  myself  badly  on  this  par- 
ticular night.  I  could  never  hold  the  razor  quite  steady. 
I  forgot  to  say  that  in  the  next  room  lived  a  man  who  was 
a  great  friend  of  mine  then,  called  Stephen  French.  He 
liked  Madeleine.  I'm  not  sure  even  that  he  did  not  love 
her  more  than  I  did — I  wonder.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  Madeleine 
didn't  like  him.  I  never  quite  understood  why,  but  I 
think  it  was  because  she  thought  he  made  jokes  at  us 
together. 

"  Well,  that  night  she  was  late.  She  had  said  that 
perhaps  she  would  be,  but  I  didn't  pay  any  attention  to 
that.  I  expected  her  at  seven  o'clock.  Almost  always  she 


224  STILL  LIFE 

arrived  when  I  was  shaving,  but  this  time  she  didn't,  and 
I  cut  myself.  I  went  into  Stephen's  room  to  get  some  wool 
to  stop  the  bleeding,  and  he  asked  me  what  was  the  matter. 
I  said  that  she  hadn't  come,  although  he  knew,  because  his 
door  was  always  open  a  little  way.  '  Oh,'  he  said,  *  don't 
you  remember  she  said  that  she  might  be  late  to-night  ? 
Why,  you  told  me  yourself.'  He  also  said  something  about 
the  chalkiness  of  my  face,  and  I  looked  in  his  mirror.  It 
surprised  me  that  I  did  look  so  chalky.  I  remember  I 
noticed  then  that  my  cheeks  ached,  because  I  was  holding 
my  teeth  together  very  hard.  Also  I  felt  sick  as  though  my 
stomach  and  bowels  had  somehow  been  relaxed.  I  went 
back  to  my  own  room  and  sat  down  in  a  chair.  All  the 
while  I  had  my  eyes  on  the  clock  so  that  I  knew  that  I  had 
waited  ten  minutes  before  Stephen  came  in.  It  was  then 
that  something  deliberate  came  into  my  brain.  I  don't 
know  how  to  describe  it ;  but  it  made  me  say  to  him,  '  I 
can't  stick  it,'  though  it  wasn't  true  at  all.  I  said  I  was 
going  to  try  to  sleep  and  that  I  was  tired,  and  while  he  was 
there  I  got  on  to  the  bed  and  lay  down  with  my  face  to  the 
wall.  I  got  so  close  to  the  wall  that  the  whole  length  of  my 
body  was  pressed  against  it.  Stephen,  I  remember,  wanted 
to  bring  in  a  rug  and  throw  it  over  me  ;  but  I  managed  not 
to  have  that.  I  shut  my  eyes.  There  was  something 
peculiar  in  the  roughness  of  the  sleeve  of  a  brown  coat  I 
wore  when  it  pressed  against  my  face.  .  .  .  Funny  that 
everything  was  brown  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  every- 
thing except  Madeleine's  stockings.  ...  I  don't  remember 
what  I  thought  about.  All  I  know  is  that  my  mind  seemed 
to  get  harder  and  harder. 

"  After  a  time — not  very  long — I  heard  her  coming  up 
the  stairs.  I  always  knew  her  step.  This  time  she  was 
hurrying.  I  jammed  myself  up  close  to  the  wall.  I  didn't 
see  her  come  in  ;  but  by  her  steps  I  knew  that  she  had  just 
come  in,  and  seen  me  on  the  bed,  and  gone  out  again.  I 
heard  her  ask  Stephen  a  question  why  I  was  asleep,  but  I 
did  not  catch  his  answer.  She  burst  into  my  room  and 


STILL  LIFE  225 

flung  herself  on  the  bed,  crying  bitterly.  She  tried  to  clasp 
me  in  her  arms,  but  I  squeezed  myself  closer  to  the  wall. 
She  kept  on  asking,  '  What  have  I  done  to  you,  what  have 
I  done  to  you  ?  ' — but  I  wouldn't  answer  her.  Instead,  I 
drew  apart  from  her.  Then  I  turned  round  on  to  my  back 
and  stared  steadily  at  the  ceiling.  I  was  quite  deliberate. 
I  noticed  that  she  didn't  try  to  clasp  me  any  more,  but  her 
arms  lay  limp  on  the  pillow.  Also  she  began  to  sob  in  a 
way  I've  never  heard  anyone  sob  before.  It  was  a  kind  of 
dry  gasping.  I  turned  over  to  look  at  her.  The  sobs  shook 
her  violently,  and  it  seemed  as  though  her  body  wouldn't 
yield  to  them  any  more.  She  seemed  to  be  strangely  stiff, 
and  I  thought  that  something  material  and  physical  in  her 
would  break.  So  she  lay  beside  me  with  her  head  in  the 
pillow  and  her  hands  just  clutching  the  coverlet,  while 
these  dry  sobs  kept  on  bursting  inside  her,  and  I  looked  at 
her. 

"  I  can  see  it  all  now,  but  what  I  can  see  most  is  the  hard- 
ness of  her  body.  It  looked  all  strained.  Then  quite 
deliberately  I  put  my  arms  round  her — how  hard  she  was 
— and  tried  to  kiss  her.  She  neither  responded  to  nor  pre- 
vented me,  but  lay  quite  still  except  for  the  sobs.  I  kissed 
her  again  and  again  and  called  to  her.  All  my  deliberation 
went.  I  was  simply  mad  for  a  response.  Then  she  lifted 
her  head  and  looked  at  me.  Her  lips  were  all  swollen  and 
her  eyes  dull  and  lifeless,  full  of  tears.  When  the  sobs 
passed  through  her,  her  neck  jerked  and  her  lips  flung 
open  and  trembled.  That's  about  all  I  remember.  I  think 
I  was  sorry  for  her.  I  know  that  I  was  trembling  violently 
in  spite  of  myself,  and  my  hands  and  my  chin  jerked  sud- 
denly every  now  and  then.  Also  I  remember  watching  her 
throat  a  long  while  after — perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour — 
while  she  was  trying  to  tidy  herself  before  the  glass.  A 
great  lump  seemed  to  be  running  up  and  down  it,  and  to 
have  something  to  do  with  her  lips  which  kept  on  opening. 
When  we  went  out  of  the  hotel  together,  she  held  her  head 
down  and  her  hand  over  her  mouth  as  though  she  were 


226  STILL  LIFE 

walking  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  and  she  held  my  hand  so 
tightly  that  it  hurt. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  think  it's  curious  that  I  should  tell  a 
story  like  that.  I  mean  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  story  at  all. 
I  know  that  I've  never  thought  of  it  from  that  day  till  this. 
I've  told  it  just  as  I  remembered  it,  because  ...  I  wanted 
to  just  then.  I  don't  know  why." 

Maurice  knelt  down  before  Anne  and  rested  his  head 
in  her  lap.  He  wanted  to  be  near  her.  At  first  he  waited 
for  some  question  from  Anne  about  Madeleine :  "  Had  he 
seen  her  again  ? "  or,  "  What  had  happened  after  that  ?  " 
No  question  came,  and  though  he  was  glad  she  had  not 
asked,  he  was  disappointed.  Then  he  thought  that  Anne 
might  have  been  hurt.  Almost  immediately  he  knew  that 
she  was  not  hurt,  though  he  knew  nothing  of  what  she  was 
feeling.  He  wanted  to  ask  her :  but  while  he  struggled 
against  a  sense  of  unfitness,  a  moral  anticlimax,  Dennis's 
voice  saved  him. 

"  You've  let  me  in  for  something — asking  me  down  here. 
I  don't  think  I'd  have  come  if  I'd  known.  ..." 

Maurice  began  to  bite  his  lip,  and  to  work  his  chin 
roughly  against  his  hand.  He  took  hold  of  Anne's  hand 
and  rested  it  in  her  lap,  where  Dennis,  sitting  against  the 
wall  behind  them,  could  not  see.  He  meant  to  kiss  the 
hand,  but  he  could  not  do  it  quickly.  Leaning  his  head 
sideways  on  Anne's  lap  he  watched  himself  stroke  her 
hand. 

Dennis  spoke  again.  "  I  think  it  was  wonderful.  ...  I 
shall  be  trying  to  do  it  myself  if  I'm  not  careful.  .  .  .  But  I 
don't  think  it's  quite  the  thing  for  Saturday  afternoon  " — 
he  looked  at  his  watch — "  or  Saturday  evening,  which  it  is 
now." 

"  What  is  the  time  then,  Dennis  ?  "  asked  Anne,  turn- 
ing her  head  towards  him.  "  Listen.  Isn't  that  someone 
coming  here  ?  " 

There  was  a  sound  of  wheels  stopping,  then  of  a  heavy 
jump  to  the  ground.  Maurice  raised  himself  and  sat  back 


STILL  LIFE  227 

on  his  heels,  allowing  Anne  to  rise.  He  smiled  at  Dennis 
with  small  conviction.  Then  he  listened  to  the  noise.  "  I 
believe  it's  Moon,"  he  said.  A  heavy  thud  followed. 
"  That's  boxes,  for  sure." 

Anne  went  to  the  door,  but  Dennis,  who  had  been  sitting 
close  to  it,  opened  it  before  her.  She  took  the  handle  from 
him  and  Maurice  saw  their  hands  involuntarily  touch. 
Dennis  drew  his  away  quickly  like  a  man  who  is  afraid  of 
being  burnt.  So  it  seemed  to  Maurice.  The  movement 
struck  him  because  it  reminded  him  of  Cradock  at  the  door 
of  the  dining-room  when  Anne  had  first  entered  into  his 
life.  He  forgot  about  it  in  the  excitement  of  hearing 
Moon's  steps  up  the  path. 

"  They're  very  heavy,  aren't  they,  Moon  ?  "  said  Dennis. 
"  Can't  I  give  you  a  hand  ?  " 

Moon  put  down  the  one  he  was  carrying  by  the  door. 
"  I  wonder  what  it  is,"  said  Anne,  looking  at  the  wooden 
box  bound  with  iron  at  the  edges. 

"  Why,  it's  your  box,"  said  Maurice.  "  Isn't  it, 
Dennis  ?  "  Dennis  was  on  the  point  of  going  down  the 
path  to  help  Moon  with  the  next.  It  was  an  excuse  for 
not  replying.  "  I  know  it  is,"  said  Maurice,  "  I  saw  it 
in  the  station  this  afternoon." 

"  We'll  take  the  other  two  round  to  the  back,"  sang  out 
Dennis,  now  a  vague  shadow  in  the  yellow  light  of  the  gig 
lamp.  "  They're  too  heavy  to  bring  through.  You'll  have 
to  unpack  them  first." 

"  Right-oh  !  "  replied  Maurice,  and  he  went  through  the 
kitchen  to  open  the  back  door.  He  was  surprised  to  find 
no  light  there  and  only  the  embers  of  a  fire.  He  lit  the 
lamp  and  flung  the  door  wide.  Dennis  and  Moon  moved 
heavily  under  the  burden  of  the  box,  and  slowly  set  it  in- 
side by  the  door.  "  Why,  Anne,  it's  my  books.  They've 
come  already,"  he  called  to  her.  "  That's  quick  work, 
isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  very  glad,"  said  Anne,  and  she  looked  out  at  the 
yellow  gleam,  and  the  little  space  won  by  two  candles  from 


228  STILL  LIFE 

the  night.  Carts  calling  at  distant  cottages  in  the  dark, 
trains  roaring  through  desolate  stations  in  the  night,  both 
had  fascinated  her  from  childhood.  She  stood  and 
watched. 

Dennis  welcomed  the  weight  of  the  box  under  which  he 
staggered  round  the  house.  It  held  him  down.  He  had 
been  on  the  point  of  telling  some  long  rigmarole  about  him- 
self. Now  that  Moon's  arrival  had  saved  him,  he  had  a 
horror  of  the  threatened  confession,  and  yet  he  felt  he 
would  have  been  happier  had  he  made  it.  "  Damn  it  all," 
he  said  to  himself,  "  what  a  thing  to  do."  For  all  that  he 
was  envious  of  Maurice  and  could  not  believe  his  own 
suggestion  that  Maurice  had  only  made  a  fool  of  himself. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  grateful  for  the  weight  of  the  last  box, 
as  with  Moon's  help  he  laid  it  ponderously  on  top  of  the 
other. 

"  They  must  have  come  this  afternoon,"  said  Maurice 
to  Moon.  "  I  was  in  to  Pirford  to  meet  Mr.  Beauchamp 
this  morning." 

"  They  came  while  I  was  at  the  station,  sir.  I  only  just 
had  room  for  them.  I  wasn't  expecting  to  go  in  to-day, 
the  missis  wanted  some  things  urgent." 

"  Well,  it  was  lucky  they  were  there,  and  very  good  of 
you  to  bring  them  along.  I'm  very  glad  to  have  them." 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,"  said  Moon,  replying  to  the  commenda- 
tion. "  It's  a  nasty  night,  black  as  pitch  under  the  hill, 
and  the  roads  are  wellnigh  washed  away  by  that  rain. 
We're  in  for  a  fair  mess,  Kitty  and  me."  (Kitty  was 
the  mare.)  "  Good  night,  sir,  good  night,  Mr.  Beau- 
champ." 

"  Anne,  did  you  know  there's  hardly  any  fire  here  ?  " 

She  turned  to  say  good  night  to  Moon  before  she  shut  the 
door  and  came  to  the  kitchen.  "  I  told  Alice  to  let  it  out. 
I  said  she  could  go  out  this  afternoon  provided  she  left 
everything  ready." 

"  Isn't  anyone  hungry  ?  "  asked  Maurice. 

"  Perhaps  we'd  better  have  supper  in  any  case.    It's 


STILL  LIFE  229 

late.  What  time  did  you  say  it  was,  Dennis  ?  "  said 
Anne. 

DenmVtook  some  seconds  to  realise  the  question.  He 
was  slowly  filling  a  pipe.  "  I've  forgotten,"  he  said,  and 
pulled  out  his  watch  again.  "  Twenty-five  minutes  past 
eight,"  he  said. 

"  That's  me,"  said  Maurice,  leading  the  way  out  of  the 
kitchen  with  the  loaded  tray  in  his  hands.  "  I  must  have 
been  in  a  queer  state."  Neither  Dennis  nor  Anne  made  any 
reply.  Maurice  shifted  the  lamp  to  the  wall  and  set  the 
tray  in  the  middle  of  the  table.  He  bent  down  and  poked 
the  fire,  shaking  the  kettle  to  see  if  it  was  full.  "  We  had 
better  have  some  tea  at  the  same  time.  We  missed  it  this 
afternoon,"  and  he  placed  the  kettle  on  the  fire. 

They  began  a  conversation  at  the  supper  table.  The 
talk  was  pleasant  but  fatigued,  like  an  activity  that  follows 
a  natural  exhaustion  of  the  body.  .  .  .  For  the  most  part  it 
circled  round  Dennis's  professional  success.  Dennis  was 
at  first  very  reluctant ;  but  when  Anne  suggested  that  he 
should  come  down  next  week,  he  had  to  acknowledge  he 
had  been  invited  to  the  Midlands  to  lecture  on  psychology. 
Maurice  seized  the  opening  and  forced  him  to  confess  that 
the  invitation  was  honorific  and  the  lectures  well  paid. 
Gradually,  thenceforward,  he  warmed  to  his  theme  and 
told  Maurice  more  about  his  prospects  than  he  cared  to 
hear.  Maurice's  delighted  interest  cooled.  Contrasting 
Dennis's  success  with  his  own  instability,  he  resented  it. 
Nevertheless,  he  found  a  recondite  pleasure  in  insisting 
that  Dennis  should  diminish  nothing  of  the  brilliance  of 
his  prospects.  Dennis  responded  to  the  insistence  with 
enjoyment.  In  part  he  became  intoxicated  with  the  smooth- 
ness of  his  own  future. 

"  It's  a  pity,"  said  Anne,  "  you  don't  really  want  it  at 
all.  You  make  it  seem  so  worth  having." 

Dennis  was  silent  for  some  while  after  that ;  but  Maurice 
did  not  notice  the  effect  of  Anne's  words.  He  was  anxious 
to  set  something  of  his  own  over  against  Dennis's  achieve- 


230  STILL  LIFE 

ment.  But  that  was  not  the  only  reason  for  his  remark, 
for  he  put  into  it  more  sincerity  and  conviction  than  would 
have  come  from  that  alone.  Moreover,  he  himself  was 
aware  of  some  inconsequence  in  what  he  said.  "  I  am  glad 
my  books  have  come,"  he  said,  in  a  pause.  "  I  never  feel 
really  safe  without  them." 

After  supper  Maurice  started  some  tentative  reminiscent 
talk  about  their  first  meeting  at  the  dinner  party,  but 
Anne,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  and  stroking  the  back  of 
her  hand  with  a  cameo  that  hung  at  the  end  of  a  silver  chain 
round  her  neck,  appeared  to  pay  little  attention,  being  full 
of  thought  or  dreams.  Dennis,  too,  was  disinclined,  but 
he  roused  himself  to  interest  at  one  moment,  and  asked  if 
Maurice  remembered  his  tirade  about  the  harmony.  Anne 
began  to  listen  and  to  watch  Maurice  then.  He  was 
anxious  to  be  rid  of  the  subject.  "I  remember  talking 
about  it,  but  very  little  of  what  I  said.  What  is  vivid  to 
me,  extraordinarily  vivid,  is  the  way  I  was  standing  at  the 
corner  of  the  fireplace.  I  can  feel  my  shoulder  against 
the  mantelpiece  now.  That's  rather  curious,  considering 
that  I'm  sure  I  didn't  notice  that  at  the  time.  But  I've 
almost  forgotten  what  I  said,  and  if  I  did  remember 
I'm  certain  that  I  shouldn't  know  what  I  meant.  It 
wouldn't  be  the  first  time  that  that  had  happened.  It 
must  be  a  pretty  common  experience  for  people,  I  should 
imagine." 

Dennis  reminded  him  of  a  phrase. 

"  Did  I  say  that  ?  How  you  do  remember  these  things  ! 
.  .  .  No,  I  have  just  a  notion  what  I  meant.  But  I'm  too 
tired  even  to  worry  about  trying  to  get  it  clear." 

"  And  I  can  hardly  keep  awake,"  said  Anne.  "  I'm 
going  up  to  bed  now."  She  lit  candles,  while  Maurice  put 
out  the  lamps,  and  went  upstairs  after  bidding  Dennis 
good  night.  A  minute  later  Dennis  and  Maurice  followed. 
Dennis  paused,  leaning  idly  on  the  banisters,  as  though  he 
wished  to  continue  the  talk.  Maurice  waited  a  little,  but 


STILL  LIFE  231 

Dennis  said  nothing.  Maurice  grew  impatient  and  restive. 
He  could  not  go  into  Anne's  room  before  Dennis's  eyes. 
"  Oh,  I've  forgotten.  ...  I  must  go  down  again,"  he  said 
abruptly.  "  Good  night,  Dennis."  He  ran  precipitately 
down  the  stairs  and  waited  idly  by  the  fire,  until  he  heard 
Dennis's  door  close.  Then  he  came  up  very  quietly.  He 
entered  Anne's  room  softly  and  without  knocking.  Anne 
was  sitting  before  the  mirror  to  brush  her  hair,  but  she  had 
forgotten,  and  her  brush  hung  down  in  her  forgetful  hand. 
When  he  reached  the  bed  he  saw  her  reflection  start,  as, 
suddenly  reminded  of  her  purpose,  she  began  to  brush 
again. 

"  Did  I  frighten  you  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"  Yes,  a  little,"  she  answered,  looking  in  the  glass  straight 
into  his  eyes.  He  felt  guilty.  He  wanted  to  clasp  her 
from  behind  and  kiss  her,  but  he  could  do  no  more  than  to 
say : 

"  Your  hair's  very  beautiful,  Anne.  It's  so  full  of  life. 
It  looks  so  springy." 

"  Is  it  ?  It  feels  very  dead  to  me  to-night ;  but  I  think 
that's  my  imagination." 

He  was  nervous  of  her  speaking  so  loud.  Anxiously  he 
tried  to  keep  his  voice  within  a  whisper.  "  Yes  ...  it 
doesn't  look  dead." 

The  words  had  a  raucous  choking  sound. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Morry  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  he  said  abruptly,  sitting  on  the  bed  and 
staring  at  his  dangling  legs. 

"We're  not  committing  adultery,"  she  said  quietly, 
and  went  on  slowly  brushing  her  dark  hair.  She  fingered 
it  delicately,  each  several  hair  like  a  tender  nerve.  Maurice 
glanced  up,  surprised  that  she  had  divined  his  thought. 
He  saw  her  smiling  gently  in  the  dim  light,  and  his  appre- 
hension dissolved  away. 

Maurice  laughed,  as  it  were,  with  a  physical  reservation. 
Anne  immediately  was  grave  as  she  had  been  when  he 
entered  the  room.  He  slowly  undressed. 


232  STILL  LIFE 

"  Anne,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  hesitant,  "  did  you  .  .  . 

hate  .  .  .  my  telling  that  about  Madeleine  .  .  .  ?  " 
"  No,"  she  said  calmly.  "  Why  should  I  ?  " 
He  did  not  know  what  he  had  really  wanted  her  to  say, 

but  her  answer  disappointed  him. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  PRESENCE  radiated  always  from  Anne  at  the  beginning 
of  a  day.  She  was  half-conscious  of  it  herself.  Perhaps  it 
was  that  she  was  always  glad  of  a  day  beginning,  and  that 
the  change  after  night  had  never  ceased  to  hold  an  element 
of  miracle  for  her.  "  A  freshet  of  dawn,"  said  Dennis  to 
himself,  and  began  to  wonder  what  the  words  meant — for 
him  they  were  poised  between  being  torrential  with  signi- 
ficance and  absolutely  meaningless — and  where  he  could 
have  got  hold  of  them. 

£"•>  "  No,  it's  no  good,"  she  said.  Dennis  had  proposed  a 
long  walk  over  the  hills,  "  somewhere  for  some  lunch." 
"  You  can  see  that  he's  simply  yearning  to  unpack  his 
books." 

"  I'm  not,"  said  Maurice  with  sturdy  indifference.  Never- 
theless, he  began  to  flush. 

"  Yes,  he's  convicted,"  said  Dennis.  "  After  an  abomin- 
able yesterday  to  waste  to-day.  Well  ..." 

"  But  we  live  in  it,  remember." 

"Yes,  that's  true.  I  dare  say  it'll  do  as  a  kind  of  excuse. 
....  How  long  will  they  take  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  shall  have  to  stack  them  away.  It's  a  longish 
job.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do.  If  I  start  now  I  shan't 
finish  until  the  afternoon." 

"  You  won't  wait  for  him  till  then  ?  It's  foolish,"  said 
Anne. 

"  I  did  have  a  vague  thought  of  helping." 

"  Oh,  no,"  protested  Maurice.  "  You  mustn't  do  that. 
That's  unfair.  ...  If  you  do  I  shall  have  to  come  out.  .  .  . 
Why  don't  you  and  Anne  go  for  a  walk  ?  I'll  be  ready  if 
you  come  back  for  lunch.  .  .  .  You  could  go  the  way  we 

233 


234  STILL  LIFE 

went  the  other  afternoon,  our  first  walk.  Anne  knows  the 
way  .  .  ." 

"  No,"  she  interposed  quickly,  "  I  think  I'd  better  have 
a  change.  It  wouldn't  do  to  go  the  same  way.  There  must 
be  plenty  of  walks  that  we  haven't  been.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  should 
like  to  go  with  you,  Dennis,"  she  went  on,  "  provided  you 
don't  walk  me  too  far  or  too  fast." 

"  Why  not  go  up  to  the  King  ?  It's  a  glorious  day  :  and 
it'll  be  clear,  most  likely,  on  the  top.  You'll  be  able  to  see 
the  sea  quite  near  you — unless  the  rain's  left  a  mist."  He 
went  to  the  window.  "  I  don't  think  so — nothing  that  you 
can  see  out  of  here  anyhow.  Dunbury  Ring — you  know 
it,  Dennis  ?  " 

Dennis  looked  uncertain. 

"  Well,  you  remember  that  old  chalkpit  beyond  Wari- 
bone's  Farm,  where  you  slipped  down  in  the  rain  ?  Last 
year,  that  must  have  been  in  August.  .  . .  What  a  long  time 
ago  it  does  seem  !  "  Maurice  explained  to  Anne.  "  It 
was  muddy  and  he  couldn't  get  a  foothold.  He  ripped  a 
great  piece  out  of  his  trousers — three-cornered — and  I 
had  to  fasten  it  up  with  a  safety-pin."  Dennis  looked 
quizzical  at  the  recollection.  "  I  pointed  it  out  to 
you  then.  I  remember  you  said  the  Ring  was  the  colour 
of  a  fine  plum.  There's  a  path  straight  up  to  it  from  the 
chalkpit,  and  on  top  you  can  see  your  way  down — any 
amount  of  them." 

"I  remember  now,"  said  Dennis.  "Are  you  sure  you 
would  really  like  to  go,  Anne  ?  "  She  had  hardly  listened 
to  the  conversation,  hardly  even  comprehended  Maurice's 
explanation.  The  question  took  her  by  surprise,  which 
endured  while  Dennis  continued  :  "  I  don't  want  to  drag 
you  out.  I'm  afraid  you  may  have  some  idea  that  because 
he's  failed  in  his  duty,  you  have  to  do  it  for  him.  I  shall 
be  quite  happy  alone  ;  but,  of  course,  if  you  do  come  .  .  . 
I'll  enjoy  it  more." 

"  Dennis,  don't  be  foolish.  I'll  come  because  I  want  to." 
She  hurried  away  to  get  ready,  and  in  a  few  moments 


STILL  LIFE  235 

Maurice  was  watching  the  two  walk  down  the  path  together. 
As  they  passed  out  of  the  range  of  the  window,  he  wished 
that  he  had  gone.  So  final  did  this  parting  seem  that  they 
might  have  left  him  for  ever  ;  only  a  sense  of  the  necessity 
of  independence  and  self-sufficiency  held  him  back  from 
following  them.  It  would  have  been  so  childish.  Before 
his  mind  a  little  picture  of  a  child's  round  legs  twinkling 
precipitately  after  his  mother  persisted  and  made  him 
smile  wretchedly.  He  was  miserably  doubtful  of  the  in- 
dependence he  guarded. 

He  sat  for  a  long  while  in  a  chair  before  the  yellow  fire, 
his  legs  stretched  in  a  straight  line  before  him,  and  his 
hands  thrust  to  the  bottom  of  his  pockets,  thinking  of 
nothing,  but  shrouded  in  a  forlornness  which  became 
almost  comfortable.  At  length  he  moved  wearily  into  the 
kitchen,  and  began  to  prise  open  his  boxes.  The  prospect 
which  had  excited  him  an  hour  before  now  was  grey  with 
ugly  and  interminable  labour.  By  turns  he  was  listless 
and  over-violent  in  his  actions,  but  careless  in  both.  He 
tore  his  finger  upon  an  upturned  nail,  and  purposely  paid 
no  regard  to  the  blood  which  dropped  at  sluggish  intervals 
over  his  possessions.  He  lumped  the  books  together  on 
the  floor,  and  paused  half-way  through  the  contents  of  the 
first  box  to  look  at  the  depressing  heap,  while  he  sat  on  a 
chair  silently  cursing.  The  day  was  cold  enough  to  chill 
the  surface  of  his  skin  all  over.  The  blood  from  his  finger 
chilled  to  stickiness.  He  was  utterly  miserable. 

He  began  to  crawl  upstairs  with  armloads  of  books. 
When  they  fell  he  laughed  as  though  the  annoyance  were 
inevitable,  and  slowly  redescended  to  pick  them  up  again  ; 
but  once  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  when  half  his  load  poured 
like  liquid  from  his  grasp,  he  turned  savagely  and  threw 
the  rest  after  them.  He  almost  wept  with  rage,  sitting  on 
the  landing,  before  he  could  go  down  to  gather  them  again. 
He  carried  the  rest  with  a  dour  determination,  as  resolved 
to  inflict  upon  himself  the  last  torture  of  self-humiliation. 
He  sat  down  on  the  seat  into  which  his  peculiar  bed  col- 


236  STILL  LIFE 

lapsed  when  out  of  use,  and  wondered  whether  he  could 
find  the  strength  to  arrange  the  books  decently  upon  their 
shelves.  Indescribably  confused,  upside  down,  they  had 
taken  on  a  malicious  personality.  To  one  well-used 
French  book  that  lay  fanwise  upon  the  floor  he  gave 
a  vicious  kick,  scattering  the  pieces,  and  then  picked 
them  up  and  began  the  labour  of  putting  them  in 
order  again.  He  tied  them  together  and  put  them  in  a 
drawer. 

He  had  done  this  before  he  realised  that  the  book  was 
not  French  at  all,  but  a  German  novel  that  Cradock  had 
lent  him  at  his  request  for  something  to  read,  at  a  time  when 
he  was  anxious  to  learn  German.  Endeavouring  idly  to 
fix  the  date  when  he  had  borrowed  it,  he  discovered  with  a 
start  that  it  was  hardly  two  months  ago.  The  fulness  of 
those  months  bewildered  him,  and  while  he  probed  about 
into  his  memory,  he  realised  with  wonder  that  this  was  the 
last  book  he  had  attempted  to  read.  From  this  solid  point, 
while  he  slowly  untied  the  parcel  and  searched  mechanically 
about  for  the  last  of  his  pencil-marks,  he  slowly  let  form  in 
his  mind  the  occasion ;  the  time  just  before  the  dinner 
party,  the  servant's  knock  at  the  door  with  the  hot  water, 
and  a  letter.  .  .  . 

He  had  never  read  that  letter.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  he  had  seen 
that  it  had  come  from  his  mother,  and  he  was  always  glad 
to  postpone  reading  letters  which  only  served  to  worry  him 
and  make  him  miserable.  .  .  .  He  began  to  wonder  whether 
it  had  really  been  his  mother's  handwriting,  for  it  was  not 
clear  in  his  recollection.  He  was  anxious  to  know  what  he 
had  done  with  it.  ...  No,  he  wouldn't  have  thrown  it  away. 
He  never  threw  letters  away  unopened,  because  he  was 
afraid.  Instead  he  let  them  lie  about  in  the  fragile  hope 
that  they  would  hide  themselves  and  pass  into  a  natural 
oblivion,  for  which  he  could  plead  to  himself  that  he  was 
not  responsible.  He  leant  back  and  closed  his  eyes  in  the 
effort  completely  to  recreate  the  picture.  .  .  .  He  must  have 
put  it  in  some  book — that  was  a  fairly  common  habit  of  his. 


STILL  LIFE  237 

What  was  he  reading  ?     The  German  novel,  of  course. 
That  meant  a  notebook  and  a  dictionary. 

What  was  the  good  of  worrying  it  out  like  that  ?  Some- 
how he  knew  that  the  letter  was  in  the  dictionary.  He 
seemed  to  have  known  it  all  along — and  there  the  dictionary 
lay  in  a  broken,  dirty  calf  binding  close  to  his  hand  on  the 
lowest  shelf.  He  knew,  and  yet  he  carefully  sought  out  the 
notebook,  went  carefully  through  it  page  by  page,  and 
finally  held  it  by  the  back  and  shook  it.  He  was  even 
surprised  when  he  found  the  letter  where  his  dictionary 
fell  apart.  He  stared  at  the  writing,  and  a  tremor  of 
physical  apprehension  passed  from  his  bowels  to  his  fingers. 
He  stared  at  it  still.  It  was  in  the  old  familiar  writing  to 
which  he  had  grown  accustomed  weekly  during  years  of 
school.  The  old  familiar  sensations  surged  back  upon  him, 
with  a  peculiar  appositeness,  a  magnified  significance.  He 
was  the  same,  yet  wholly  different.  His  division  of  soul 
was  the  same.  Then  the  apprehension  of  some  gentle 
scolding,  of  the  tired  tolerance,  whose  sting  was  the  love 
which  even  then  he  did  not  fail  to  feel,  for  some  expected 
letter  unreceived  or  some  request  for  money  which  could 
not  be  afforded,  but  was  sent,  warred  with  a  terrible  fear 
which  beset  him  when  the  Monday  letter  did  not  come,  and 
he  waited  through  hours  of  agonising  afternoons  on  the 
slender  hope  of  the  evening  post.  When  the  letter  came, 
tossed  over  the  heads  of  forty  school  boys  sitting  sedately 
after  evening  prayers,  he  would  gasp  with  joy,  put  the 
letter  in  his  pocket,  and  forget  it  utterly  for  days. 

Like  a  warm  flood  of  repentant  tears  the  wave  of  recollec- 
tion passed  over  him.  He  was  still  fingering  the  letter, 
upon  the  book  which  lay  in  his  lap.  He  laughed  miserably. 
That  self  of  a  few  short  years  ago  was  a  caricature  of  the 
self  of  to-day,  so  bitingly  faithful,  so  justly  microscopic. 
Wherein  was  he  different  now  ?  he  asked  himself  despair- 
ingly. A  sudden  perception,  agonisingly  clear,  gave  him  the 
answer.  The  apprehensions  were  the  same.  They  had  the 
same  quality.  Only  now  they  went  deeper.  Only  now 


238  STILL  LIFE 

they  were  bigger.  His  lips  moved  automatically  to  a 
forgotten  refrain  that  he  had  used  jeeringly  to  sing  to 
the  boys  who  passed  from  lower  to  upper  school,  from 
one  world  to  another. 

He  can  brush  his  own  clothes 

And  blow  nib  own  nose, 

For  he's  getting  a  big  boy  now.  .  .  . 

With  an  effort  he  stiffened  his  resolution,  talking  aloud 
to  himself.  "  What  the  devil's  a  letter,  you  fool  ?  It 
can't  hurt  you,  it  can't  hit  you,  it  can't  bite  you,  it  can't ..." 
Slipping  his  thumb  under  the  flap  he  tore  it  open  suddenly, 
as  though  to  surprise  himself  with  the  accomplished  fact. 

A  sheet  of  written  note-paper  and  another  letter.  In  an 
agony  of  haste  he  hid  it  in  his  pocket,  seeking  to  steady 
himself  by  staring  at  the  written  sheet,  and  by  a  physical 
straining  of  his  eyes  to  penetrate  the  mist  that  swam 
cloudy  before  it.  He  laid  the  letter  down  on  the  seat  and 
rose  to  regard  himself  in  the  round  mirror  that  hung  over 
his  chest  of  drawers.  He  pinched  his  pale  cheeks,  and  held 
his  lids  down  over  his  eyes,  to  rub  their  shining  empty 
focus  away.  Even  then  memories  danced  malignant  in  his 
brain — above  all  that  which  he  had  recreated  for  himself 
out  of  a  grateful  dimness  last  night — his  face  in  the  mirror 
larded  clown-like  with  a  foam  of  soap,  and  two  frightened 
eyes,  as  he  had  waited  for  Madeleine.  ...  He  hardened  the 
sinews  of  his  mind  against  importunate  memory,  and  sat 
down  once  more  with  a  leaden  composure  to  read  and  com- 
prehend the  big  straggling  words  which  his  mother  had 
written. 

"MORRY  DARLING, 

"  I  do  not  know  where  to  send  this  letter.  I  know 
who  it  is  from.  You  promised  me  that  you  would  never 
write  to  her  again  that  morning  in  the  dining-room  at 
Wimbledon.  But  I  can't  see  that  it  would  matter  now 
when  you  don't  even  care  enough  for  me  to  let  me  know 


STILL  LIFE  239 

where  you  are  living.  Perhaps  you  are  afraid  that  I 
would  come  and  see  you.  I  wouldn't — but  I  don't  even 
know  if  you  are  alive.  If  you  only  knew  what  I  have  had 
to  suffer  in  the  nights  thinking  of  you.  I  am  sending  it  to 
your  old  address,  though  I  know  you  don't  live  there. 
It  may  get  to  you.  I  can't  see  that  it  matters  in  any 
case. 

"  Your  always  loving  MOTHER. 

"  P.S.— Though  I  did  go  to  Ebury  Street,  I  wasn't 
coming  to  see  you.  Only  I  had  to  know  if  you  were 
alive." 

He  would  melt  inwardly,  become  all  tears.  Instead  he 
laughed,  the  same  miserable  laugh.  "  If  you  only  knew," 
he  said,  "  what  I  am  up  to  now."  He  thought  of  that  other 
letter  heavy  in  his  pocket,  and  immediately  became  remote. 
He  no  longer  felt  himself,  but  saw  himself,  a  little  man  of 
sorrows.  By  turns  the  glasses  of  his  mind  coloured  him  to 
tragic,  to  heroic,  to  inflexible,  to  callous,  but  finally  and 
always  to  petty  and  ridiculous.  It  had  been  a  little  too 
much.  The  whole  situation  seemed  to  cancel  out  in  feeling 
and  to  reduce  to  nothingness.  His  mother,  Madeleine, 
Anne,  were  little  round  blobs  in  his  mind  that  coalesced 
and  dissolved  away,  leaving  behind  them  only  a  conscious 
emptiness. 

It  was  the  moment  for  Madeleine's  letter.  To  him, 
beaten  into  a  lethargy  of  indifference,  the  letter  would  be 
indifferent.  He  pulled  it  out  of  his  pocket,  but  paused  in 
the  act  of  opening  it,  and  went  downstairs  to  look  at  the 
clock.  Twenty- three  minutes  past  twelve.  Precisely  he 
calculated  that  Dennis  and  Anne  would  not  return  from 
their  walk  for  an  hour.  They  might  shorten  it  and  come 
in  upon  him  suddenly.  He  considered  the  possibility  and 
decided  that  had  they  shortened  the  walk  they  would 
already  have  arrived.  For  the  last  mile  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  to  climb  on  to  the  hill  and  return  by  the  ridge. 


240  STILL  LIFE 

An  hour's  freedom  was  enough.    He  went  upstairs  again 
with  steady  decision  and  opened  the  letter. 

He  looked  at  the  end  of  the  letter  to  see  if  he  could  read 
anything  in  the  signature.  From  the  first  the  curiously 
decided  backward  flourish  of  the  last  letter  of  her  name 
had  fascinated  him,  for  it  had  the  firm  deliberation  of  a 
French  professional  signature.  Many  times  before  he  had 
looked  to  see  if  the  line  showed  any  wavering.  During  a 
year  he  had  had  time  to  forget  the  particularities  of  her 
writing  ;  but  he  felt  sure  that  the  name  "  Madeleine  "  was 
written  bigger  than  it  used  to  be.  The  flourish  showed  no 
deviation  from  its  forerunners.  The  letters  were  certainly 
bigger.  "  Probably  she  used  a  broader  pen,"  he  said  to 
himself.  The  whole  letter  was  indeed  blacker  than  they 
had  used  to  be. 

"  MON  MAURICE, 

"  Ton  silence  m'a  conduit  au  desespoir.  Je  suis  au 
bout  de  mes  forces.  C'est  la  derniere  fois  que  je  t'ecris. 
II  m'affole  de  penser  qu'il  y  avait  un  temps  ou  j 'etais 
pleine  de  joie  et  de  confiance  que  tu  m'  aimais  de  tout  ton 
cceur.  Maintenant  je  suis  vide.  Malheur  que  cela  ne 
te  dira  rien.  Tu  n'as  jamais  eprouve  ce  qu'il  est  de  se 
sentir  vide.  Tu  croyais  meme  que  je  n'allais  point  voir 
dans  tes  dernieres  lettres  que  tu  etais  change  envers  moi, 
et  que  c'est  au  moment  ou  je  me  plaignais,  que  tu  as 
commence  ton  silence.  Je  ne  sais  pourquoi  je  t'ecris. 
Je  n'ai  pas  d'esperance,  je  n'ai  meme  pas  le  desir  de 
t'attrister.  Tu  as  choisi.  Peut-etre  c'est  ta  mere  qui 
t'a  fait  changer  de  force,  car  tu  etais  si  faible — tu  m'a 
fait  bien  Je  sentir,  mon  petit  Maurice — mais  je  sais  bien 
que  si  ta  mere  savait  jusqu'ou  1'amour  de  toi  a  conduit 
une  femme  folle,  elle  s'adoucirait  envers  moi.  Ainsi  si 
c'est  comme  je  pense  tou jours,  je  te  supplie  de  lui  montrer 
ma  lettre.  Elle  est  femme,  et  je  suis  convaincue  qu'elle 
aura  pitie  de  moi,  si  tu  n'as  pas  eu  la  force  d'avoir  pitie 
toi-meme.  Je  te  supplie  de  la  lui  montrer. 


STILL  LIFE  241 

"Maintenant  je  suis  au  bout.  Je  reconnais  que  je  ne 
suis  pas  fiere,  moi.  Je  reconnais  que  tu  ne  m'as  jamais 
aimee  comme  je  le  croyais.  Mais  j'ai  tant  travaille,  j'ai 
tant  souffert,  et  enfin  je  suis  tellement  malade.  Tu  te 
souviens  de  ma  phthisic  quand  j'etais  au  lit,  et  tu  6tais  si 
gentille  envers  moi.  Aie  pitie*  de  moi  mon  Maurice  ;  je 
ne  demande  pas  1'amour.  Qa,  c'est  passe — je  ne  veux 
rien  demander.  Je  te  supplie.  De  quoi  ?  Je  ne  sais 
plus.  J'ai  peur  de  n'etre  qu'une  folle.  Ah,  mon  bien 
aime,  ne  te  souviens-tu  pas  ? — ecris-moi  un  petit  mot. 
Si  non,  je  ne  t'ecrirai  plus.  Je  serais  morte. 

"  MADELEINE." 

He  sat  with  the  letter  in  his  hands,  in  horror  at  himself. 
He  saw  the  words,  he  understood  them,  he  even  felt  their 
significance,  but  all  this  passed  in  an  outer  shell  of  him. 
Within  he  felt  nothing  at  all,  save  the  strange  and  keen 
sensation  of  his  failure  to  feel,  a  sensation  nearly  physical 
and  nearly  familiar,  as  the  violent  pressure  of  numbed 
flesh.  Fear  there  was  too,  but  a  fear  of  the  letter  as  a  con- 
crete thing,  a  living  organism  with  power  to  hurt  and 
torture  him  ;  and  this  moved  him  to  tear  it  across,  while 
he  watched  the  creeping  tear,  dividing  words  of  sense. 
Then  he  hesitated,  laid  the  two  parts  against  each  other 
and  placed  them  in  a  pocket-book,  which  he  put  back  in  his 
pocket.  He  stood  up  and  tidied  himself,  pulling  his  clothes 
down  tight  against  his  body,  and  then  went  downstairs 
and  out  into  the  garden  where  he  began  to  gather  flowers. 
For  some  reason  they  did  not  satisfy  him,  and,  keenly 
remembering  the  red-white  buds  of  some  early  May 
blossom  in  the  lane,  he  went  through  the  gate  snapping 
and  snapping  a  clumsy  jack-knife  in  his  hands. 


CHAPTER  XV 

PASSING  by  the  edge  of  the  chalkpit,  with  effort  ascending 
the  hill,  Anne  paused  suddenly.  Dennis  drew  up  and,  in 
the  last  completion  of  an  action  fading  into  rest,  slowly 
wheeled  round  on  the  hill  and  faced  the  prospect. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Dennis  ?  " 

He  held  his  peace  for  a  second  ;  then  spoke  with  a  non- 
chalant abruptness. 

"  D'you  really  want  to  know  ?  " 

Anne  thought  and  said  : 

"  Yes,  tell  me." 

"  Well — I  was  wondering  whether  I  was  really  glad  that 
you  had  come  with  me.  .  .  .  Other  things,  too,  but  that 
most." 

"  Have  you  decided  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  glad." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  things.  I  don't  think  I  could  have 
asked  you  them  in  the  house." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  I  will  answer  them  here  ?  " 

"I'm  sure  of  that.  I  was  always  sure,  before.  The  only 
question  was  whether  I  would  have  the  courage  to  ask 
them.  Now  I'm  in  a  state  when  I  could  ask  anything." 

"  Since  I  said  I  really  wanted  to  know  what  you  were 
thinking  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  said  it  deliberately." 

"  I  know  you  did." 

Anne  waited  for  his  words.  Her  breathing,  excited  by 
the  steady  climb,  was  slowly  sinking  to  evenness.  As 
she  waited  she  felt  that  it  wholly  disappeared  into  calm. 

242 


STILL  LIFE  243 

"  Why  did  you  go  away  with  Morry  ?  " 

"  You  know  why  I  left  Jim  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  And  you  ask  why  I  went  away  with  Morry  ?  " 

He  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  looked  steadily  at  hers.  There 
was  an  unfamiliar  eagerness  in  them,  and  for  a  moment  it 
seemed  that  her  whole  body  was  leaning  forward  to  him. 
He  knew  that  he  was  mistaken  before  he  replied. 

"  Yes.    I  still  want  to  know." 

Looking  at  her,  he  felt  that  there  was  some  change  in 
her  at  his  words,  a  change  not  to  be  apprehended  by  the 
eyes.  To  him  it  came  as  a  consciousness  of  right  in  what 
he  had  said.  He  was  very  secure. 

"  Well — there  came  a  time — when  I  had  to." 

He  looked  his  doubts  before  he  spoke  them.  His  foot 
tapped  with  a  slow  impatience  on  the  ground. 

;'  That's — yes,  it  may  be  true  enough,  but  that's  not 
what  I  want.  Anybody  might  say  that — any  woman — 
and  I'd  have  to  take  it.  But  I  want  something  more  from 
you.  You  didn't  have  to  leave  Jim.  At  least  you  did,  yet 
you  stayed.  You  left  him  when  you  didn't  have  to  any 
more.  But  you  explained  that.  You  must  explain  again. 
...  I  don't  mean  you  must ;  but  I  ask  you  to." 

"  I  thought  Morry  needed  me." 

She  spoke  with  a  certain  finality,  as  though  the  thought 
and  the  reality  could  but  be  one. 

"  Do  you  think  so  now  ?  " 

She  thought  and  said  decisively  :   "  Yes,  I  do." 

"  But  do  you  think  he  needs  you  ?  Not  something  of  you, 
but  you.  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  No.  .  .  .  It's  even  foolish  to  speak  of  not  being  sure.  I 
know  he  doesn't  need  me.  But  I  don't  ask  for  that.  He 
needed  something  of  me  so  much  ;  that  I  wanted  to  give  it, 
beyond  everything — and  I  want  to  now.  Then  I  went 
away  with  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  wasn't  charity  and  it  wasn't 
blindness.  I  was  glad  and  I'm  glad  now." 

"  But  how  long  will  you  be  glad  ?  " 


244  STILL  LIFE 

"  Always."  She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  he  could 
not  understand.  For  an  instant  he  thought  that  she  was 
convincing  herself  against  him.  The  thought  was  dis- 
solving from  his  mind  before  the  question  it  prompted, 
when  she  said : 

"  Dennis,  tell  me.  For  whom  are  you  asking  ?  For 
Morry,  for  me,  or  for  yourself  ?  " 

He  felt  instantly  that  the  ground  had  been  taken  from 
beneath  him,  and  he  was  at  the  point  of  smiling  at  his  own 
discomfiture.  Somehow  it  was  too  serious  for  that. 

"  Yes,  go  on,"  he  said. 

"  You're  asking  for  yourself.  .  .  .  And  there  is  only  one 
excuse  for  that — that  you  should  be  in  love  with  me,  and 
I  in  love  with  you  .  .  ."  She  paused  calmly.  "  Perhaps 
there's  another,"  she  added,  "  that  you  should  be  you." 

The  words  sang  in  his  ears  ;  but  he  held  himself  steady 
till  the  time  when  he  could  laugh  at  himself. 

"  Perhaps  it's  because  you're  Dennis,"  Anne  went  on, 
"  that  you  don't  really  know  that  you're  asking  for  your- 
self. You  can  cheat  yourself  into  the  idea  that  you're 
asking  for  me,  for  Morry,  for  the  Universe  itself.  And 
somehow  you  just  stop  short  at  the  point  where  you  could 
not  help  seeing.  D'you  understand  ?  " 

Dimly  he  did,  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"  What  held  you  back  from  asking  me  point-blank 
whether  I  thought  it  was  fair  to  myself  ?  Wasn't  it  the 
idea  that  I  should  say,  '  By  what  right  do  you  ask  ?  ' 
You'd  have  seen  then  that  you  were  asking  for  yourself. 
And  you  wouldn't  ask  whether  I  thought  it  was  fair  to 
Morry — for  the  same  reason.  And  that  was  the  only 
reason  why  you  didn't  ask  whether  it  was  fair  to  yourself, 
too."  She  laughed.  "  I  almost  believe  you  could  convince 
yourself  that  you  were  asking  in  the  interests  of  your  pro- 
fession." 

Both  had  become  gay.  They  were  happy  there  on  the 
hill-side.  Anne  with  laughing  wind-swept  eyes,  poised 
delicately  like  a  reed  in  the  wind  upon  a  hummock  of 


STILL  LIFE  245 

grass,  above ;  Dennis,  who  stood  sideways  to  her,  as 
though  his  mind  might  have  been  divided  betwejn  .  nne 
herself  and  the  prospect  of  silvery  Aran  and  the  distant 
hills.  With  his  hands  in  his  pockets  he  stood  forlornly 
smiling.  Perhaps  he  was  happy  at  the  sight  of  his  own 
comic  figure,  and  Anne  was  happy  too,  and  he  twice  happy 
in  her  happiness. 

"  We're  in  the  mood  to  be  honest,"  said  Anne.  "  We 
will  be.  You  asked  for  yourself.  I'll  grant  your  right  to 
ask  because  you're  Dennis.  What  does  that  mean  ?  Not 
that  you  are  a  cool  intellect.  No  one  grants  anything  to 
that.  No,  only  that  you  are  partly  in  love  with  me.  You're 
in  love  with  me  the  moment  that  you  think  somebody  else  is. 
You  need  somebody  else  to  rouse  you  to  assert  your  claim. 
And  of  course  that  only  means  there's  no  claim  at  all.  You 
don't  need  me  nor  anyone  else.  You  are  too  completely 
master  of  yourself.  .  .  .  How  much  you  have  mastered,  I 
should  not  like  to  say  ;  much  less  than  you  imagine.  You 
hold  your  feelings  so  tight  in  the  ordinary  way  that  when 
they  escape  you,  you're  bewildered,  and  so  you  can  always 
excuse  yourself  convincingly  and  say  that  you  were  out  of 
your  mind.  It's  all  wrong.  Your  abnormal  moments  are 
your  true  ones,  but  you  can't  see  that  yet.  Perhaps  you 
need  .  .  .  No,  but  until  your  criticism  magnifies  instead  of 
diminishing  your  feelings,  you'll  go  on  in  the  same  old  way. 

"  Yes,  I'm  very  superior,  aren't  I  ?  You  won't  be  angry 
with  me — with  me  the  inaccessible,"  she  sang,  spreading 
our  her  arms,  and  standing  tiptoe  on  her  little  hill.  Her 
arms  sank  to  her  sides  like  the  wings  of  a  bird  settled  from 
flight,  and  she  laughed,  happily  tired. 

"  Can't  we  go  home  by  some  quicker  way  ?  We've 
wasted  so  much  time,"  she  said. 

"  No.  You  could  go  down  now,  but  it  would  be  longer. 
The  shortest  way  is  to  keep  up  and  along  the  top." 

"  Very  well,  come  on."    They  climbed  steadily  for  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  and  rested  naturally  on  the  summit  at 
the  edge  of  the  Ring. 


246  STILL  LIFE 

"  Don't  you  like  my  explanation  ?  Is  it  too  personal  ? 
You  haven't  said  a  word  since  I  stopped." 

Dennis  looked  at  her  with  a  sideways  glance,  anxious  to 
divine  her  purpose,  but  was  reassured. 

"  I  was  only  thinking  if  it  was  true." 

"  There's  not  the  slightest  reason  why  it  should  be — 
none  at  all.  .  .  .  Let's  go  on.  .  .  ." 

Maurice  was  looking  out  of  the  window  when  they 
entered  the  house.  He  moved  to  meet  Anne,  and  watched 
her  while  she  removed  her  coat  and  hung  it  on  the  door. 
An  admiration  of  the  deliberate  and  self-contained  per- 
fection of  her  movements  held  him.  "  She  is  mine,  she 
belongs  to  me,"  he  thought,  hardly  before  the  knowledge 
of  the  stupidity,  the  sheer  untruth  of  his  claim  ebbed  back 
upon  him.  The  very  quality  of  his  admiration  set  distances 
between  them.  Distances — and  then  he  was  aware  of  a 
dumb  portion  of  his  soul  where  the  appeals  of  Madeleine 
and  his  mother  and  his  stifled  response  revolved  in 
mechanical  iteration.  To  silence  their  incessant  motion 
he  spoke,  hesitatingly. 

"  Did  you  have  a  good  time — both  of  you  ?  "  he  added 
carefully,  prompted  by  some  obscure  instinct  to  set  Anne 
completely  apart  from  him. 

Anne  hung  her  coat  on  the  door.  Dennis  entered  and 
checked  her  reply,  if  she  had  intended  to  speak.  As  she 
turned  to  face  Maurice,  she  saw  on  the  table  a  great 
earthenware  basin  filled  with  white  may. 

"  But  that's  terribly  unlucky  !  "  she  cried  suddenty,  un- 
awares. 

"  Is  it  ?  I  didn't  know,"  said  Maurice  dully.  It  chimed 
too  well  with  his  own  manifest  destiny  to  surprise  him. 
He  hastened  to  explain  away  the  unmistakable  note  in  his 
voice.  "  I  might  have  expected  it.  I've  been  in  a  bad  way 
ever  since  you  left  the  house.  Somehow  I  got  into  my 
head  the  idea  that  you  were  going  away  for  ever  and  ever, 
while  I  watched  you  going  along  the  lane.  I  wanted  to 
come  after  you,  but  I  couldn't.  Oh,  God,  I  wish  I  had — 


STILL  LIFE  247 

it  was  so  lonely.  Then  it  was  cold.  I  couldn't  get  free 
from  it  all  the  morning.  I  don't  know  how  I  unpacked  the 
books,  and  then  when  I'd  finished,  I  wanted  to  gather 
flowers.  I  might  have  thought  they  were  for  putting  on 
my  grave — only  I  didn't.  I  just  wanted  to  bring  in  flowers, 
I  suppose.  I  got  some  from  the  garden  first  and  I  hated 
them.  The  tulips  seemed  so  fat  and  stupid.  I  had  to  throw 
them  away.  Then  I  went  and  cut  some  may  down  the  lane. 
It  made  me  quite  cheerful — comparatively,  to  hack  at  it. 
And  now  it  turns  out  unlucky.  No,  I'm  not  surprised." 

"  How  terrible,  darling  !  "  she  said.  She  came  forward 
and  put  her  arms  on  his  shoulders.  He  held  her  to  him, 
but  there  was  something  calculated  in  the  manner  of  his 
holding  which  he  could  not  hide,  though  he  knew  she  would 
feel.  Again,  to  excuse  himself  he  said  :  "  It's  very  hard  to 
fling  that  clean  away.  It's  made  me  cold  all  through.  I 
shall  need  a  lot  of  thawing."  He  was  dull  and  insensible 
to  the  matter  of  his  lies,  but  acute  in  his  sense  of  the  manner 
in  which  he  told  them.  The  necessity  to  convince  Anne 
pressed  upon  him,  in  spite  of  the  conviction  that  he  could 
not.  In  his  mind  he  felt  "  she  can't  know  exactly — not 
exactly." 

She  led  him  to  the  bowl  of  white  flowers.  Still  holding 
his  shoulders  she  leant  over,  turning  her  head,  to  regard 
them  closely.  "  But  they  can't  be  really  unlucky  .  .  . 
they're  too  beautiful." 

While  she  leant  towards  the  bowl  Maurice  kissed  the 
firm  white  of  her  bended  neck  quickly.  He  felt  the  grip  of 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulders  suddenly  tighten,  then  relax 
again,  while  she  turned  slowly  back  to  him.  The  glimmer 
of  reproach  in  her  eyes  told  that  she  had  been  wounded. 
He  had  known  that  she  would  be ;  but  he  felt  now  only 
that  he  had  taken  an  extreme  and  impossible  risk. 

"  I  don't  think  that's  much  of  a  reason,"  said  Dennis, 
sitting  on  the  table  edge  and  leaning  sideways  against  the 
wall.  "  I'm  even  prepared  to  set  out  and  support  an 
argument  that  the  extremes  of  beauty  are  of  necessity 


248  STILL  LIFE 

evil  and  unlucky.  I  disapprove  of  the  desire  to  let  him 
escape  the  consequences  of  his  sin."  He  looked  steadily 
out  of  the  window  while  he  spoke. 

Maurice  held  Anne  the  more  firmly  while  he  looked  over 
her  shoulder  at  Dennis.  "  Oh,  don't  worry.  I'm  per- 
fectly prepared  to  accept  the  consequences."  A  cold 
detachment  as  of  final  resolution  supported  his  voice  ;  but 
he  was  conscious  that  he  was  acting,  terribly  acting.  He 
held  Anne  tighter,  and  he  would  have  hurt  her,  had  not 
some  physical  barrier  to  his  bodily  control  been  fixed. 
"  After  all,  a  little  more  evil  wouldn't  matter  very  much 
to  me.  I've  had  enough  not  to  feel  the  last  straw.  I've 
felt  it  already — and  those  that  come  after  .  .  .  well,  I  won't 
cry  about  them." 

He  knew  that  he  was  acting,  and  yet  something  of  him- 
self, serious  and  true,  crept  in.  He  realised  distinctly  that 
he  had  no  hold  of  himself,  and  a  strange  thought  came 
into  his  mind.  "  This  is  how  people  are  at  the  crisis  of  their 
lives."  The  thought  held  him  fast  by  a  plain  conviction. 
He  felt  that  it  had  taken  all  his  responsibility  for  himself 
away.  Anne  disengaged  herself  from  him,  taking  his  hand 
in  hers  and  putting  it  away  from  her  body,  and  her  action 
was  sharp  with  the  inevitability  of  a  dream. 

"  You  take  me  too  seriously,"  said  Dennis. 

"  I  can't."  Maurice  was  speaking  indelible  lines.  "  The 
thing  is  serious.  Even  if  it's  only  flowers,  you  can't  ever 
tell  how  much  of  yourself  is  going  into  them.  At  a  certain 
time  I  wanted  to  go  out  and  cut  may.  I  didn't  think  about 
it.  There  was  a  may-bush  in  front  of  my  eyes  and  I  had  to 
go.  You  can't  say  I  take  it  too  seriously." 

Anne  bent  over  the  bowl.  Her  back  was  turned  to 
Maurice.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  hands,  which 
clenched  the  table  edge  so  that  he  thought  they  might 
crush  it.  Dennis  was  watching  him  curiously. 

"  Things  are  serious.  I  know  it.  I  don't  take  things 
seriously.  They  come  to  me  serious.  God  only  knows  what 
they  mean.  That  bowl  of  flowers  is  significant.  Signifi- 


STILL  LIFE  249 

cant  of  what  I  don't  know.  Anne  said  it  was  unlucky. 
Yes  ..."  He  held  himself  again.  A  moment  of  calculation 
came  like  a  clear  space  in  a  stormy  sky.  "  But  that's  only 
words.  All  I  know  is  that  there  is  meaning — and  all  I  know 
about  that  meaning  is  that  it's  not  just  unluckiness.  It 
would  make  life  too  simple  .  .  .  wouldn't  it,  Anne  ?  " 

He  had  struck  at  her.  She  turned  round  as  she  was 
struck  and  looked  at  him  without  a  word.  Deliberately, 
he  moved  his  eyes  from  hers,  and  looked  at  Dennis's 
leg  that  swung  regularly  to  and  fro  from  the  table  edge. 
Half  it  fascinated  him,  half  he  insisted  on  being  fascinated 
by  it.  Anne  was  leaning  against  the  table,  with  her 
shoulders  hunched  up  about  her  neck,  and  the  palms  of 
her  hands  pressed  hard  on  the  table  behind  her.  Dennis 
still  looked  at  Maurice  curiously.  They  were  both  looking 
at  him,  he  knew ;  he  called .  every  fibre  and  nerve  in  his 
body  to  aid  him,  to  keep  his  eyes  steady  fixed  on  Dennis's 
swinging  leg.  If  he  stopped  it.  ...  Else  he  would  go  on 
looking  and  looking  at  it  for  ever.  Slowly  it  stopped, 
slowly  swinging  to  rest.  He  felt  that  he  had  won,  he  did 
not  know  what  he  had  won. 

"  I'm  a  bloody  fool,"  he  said,  and  dropped  like  a  dead 
lump  into  a  chair  beside  him,  with  his  eyes  closed. 

Instantly  he  opened  them.  Anne  was  moving  towards 
the  stairway. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to,  Anne  ?  " 

"  To  my  room." 

Maurice  was  half-way  out  of  his  chair  to  follow  her. 
As  she  disappeared  through  the  door,  he  moved  for- 
ward suddenly,  then  sank  back  in  his  chair,  all  his  effort 
spent. 

He  looked  with  a  weary,  half  -  apologetic  curiosity  at 
Dennis,  who  was  on  the  table,  swinging  his  leg  again. 

"  What  the  hell,"  said  Dennis  with  a  coolness  that  gave 
his  explosive  words  a  queer  quality,  "  do  you  want  to  do 
that  for  ?  " 

Maurice  smiled  feebly.    He  pulled  himself  up  out  of  his 


250  STILL  LIFE 

chair,  and  went  to  the  bowl.  Carefully  he  looked  over  the 
blossom  and  buds  and  chose  a  small  piece.  "  I  may  as  well 
have  a  buttonhole  .  .  .  after  that,"  he  said,  and  he  fixed  it 
with  nervous  fingers  in  his  coat. 

A  few  moments  passed  in  silence  between  him  and 
Dennis,  while  an  anxiety  became  imperious  within  him. 
Then  he  went  quickly  upstairs  and  tapped  at  Anne's  door. 
"  Anne,"  he  whispered,  while  he  plucked  at  the  blossom  in 
his  coat  and  threw  it  away  from  him.  "  Anne."  Quietly, 
as  it  were  performing  a  duty,  neither  painful  nor  desirable, 
she  admitted  him. 

He  leant  back  on  the  door,  which  shut  by  his  weight. 

"  Anne,  have  I  hurt  you  ?  " 

"  Too  much." 

Again  he  would  act  a  part.  Before  he  could  begin, 
despair  at  himself,  at  his  own  awful  impulse,  took  hold  of 
him.  It  puckered  a  corner  of  his  mouth  into  a  hopeless 
smile.  It  broke  into  his  voice  as  he  said  : 

"  I'm  sorry." 

She  seemed  to  be  thinking.  But  her  action  could  not 
have  been  the  outcome  of  thought,  so  gentle  and  so  com- 
pelling was  it.  She  took  his  hand  that  drummed  its  fingers 
listlessly  against  the  door,  and  kissed  him  on  the  mouth. 
"  We'll  go  down,"  she  said. 

She  held  his  arm  while  they  descended  the  narrow  stairs. 
They  were  squeezed  against  each  other ;  but  they  went 
together.  At  the  bottom  she  said  : 

"  We  must  all  be  famishing.  .  .  .  Why,  Dennis,  what 
are  you  doing  there  ?  "  He  was  bending  over  the  fire, 
which  billowed  with  smoke  and  steam. 

"  I'm  burning  this  cursed  stuff.    I  hate  it." 

"  But  it  couldn't  do  any  harm  now.  It  was  very  beauti- 
ful." Maurice  slipped  his  arm  from  hers  and  ran  back  up 
the  stairs. 

"  Oh— I  thought .  .  .  Well,  it  can't  be  helped I  was 

left  alone  with  it,  you  see." 

Their  eyes  met.    Anne  said  seriously,  "  Of  course,  that's 


STILL  LIFE  251 

different,"  and  they  both  laughed.  While  they  laughed 
Maurice  came  down  and  threw  the  sprig  from  his  button- 
hole on  the  fire.  Nevertheless,  he  was  a  little  hurt.  Surely 
it  was  impossible  to  laugh. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Only  Dennis's  absorption,"  said  Anne.  "  He  might 
have  been  burning  a  baby." 

Maurice  laughed  too.  They  had  a  happy  evening,  while 
Dennis  cynically  explored  his  soul,  and  Maurice  forgot 
so  much  that  he  was  angry  with  himself  for  forgetting, 
when  he  woke  to  a  chill  certainty  in  the  next  day's 
dawn. 

Early  in  the  morning  they  rode  together  in  Moon's 
wagonette  into  Pirford.  Dennis  was  taciturn  before  the 
prospect  of  his  return,  and  the  morning  air  was  cold.  Fits 
of  helpless  apprehension  passed  through  Maurice,  and 
Anne  had  no  impulse,  if,  indeed,  she  had  the  strength,  to 
break  through  the  sombre  clouds  that  wrapped  them. 
Dennis  made  a  few  gloomy  observations  concerning  the 
work  and  the  men  awaiting  him  at  the  hospital,  and 
depressed  himself  continually,  until  the  strain  was  eased  in 
a  final  outburst : 

"  I  shall  have  to  give  it  up." 

"  Well,  why  not  ?  "  said  Anne. 

;<  Yes,  why  not  ?  "  echoed  Maurice,  shivering. 

"  Oh,  there're  plenty  of  reasons.  And  it's  not  very  easy 
after  I've  demolished  them  all.  I'm  covenanted  to  stay 
there  at  least  another  year." 

"  Can't  you  resign  ?  " 

"  People  have  resigned — but  it's  not  so  easy.  They 
don't  like  it." 

"  Of  course  if  you  mean  to  bother  about  what  they 
like  ..."  said  Maurice. 

"  I  don't.  But  it  happens  that  I  do  rather  like  the  work. 
I  do  it  very  well — and  if  I'm  honest  I  must  confess  that's 
about  the  only  real  satisfaction  that  I  get  in  life.  ...  It 
doesn't  last  a  moment  afterwards  it's  true.  .  .  I've  a 


252  STILL  LIFE 

suspicion  that  I'm  only  being  sentimental  about  myself 
when  I  want  to  give  it  up.  I'm  not  sure." 

"  I  think,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  give  it  up  just  to  see  what 
happened  to  myself,"  said  Anne. 

"  You  think  I  don't  know  ?  " 

Anne  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  If  you  do,  then  don't 
dream  of  giving  it  up.  It  couldn't  be  worth  while." 

"  No,  that's  right." 

"  Do  you  think  you  know  what  you'll  do  ?  " 

"No  ...  but  I  shall  to-night . .  .  and  to-morrow  morning 
I  shan't." 

"  Well,  what  does  it  matter  ?  " 

"  But  it  does." 

"  How  can  it  ?  You  can  let  the  outside  of  yourself  choose 
what  it  likes,  but  it  won't  be  a  choice.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
even  the  outside  won't  choose.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to 
wait,  till  something  bigger  than  you  chooses  for  you.  But 
I  think  you'd  do  well  to  wait  until  you  really  chose  some- 
thing yourself.  It  might  be  a  novel  experience." 

Anne  was  impatient  with  him,  and  she  allowed  him  to 
feel  something  of  her  impatience.  She  began  to  dislike  the 
importunity  with  which  he  displayed  himself  to  her.  And 
annoyed  that  she  should  be  called  upon  to  suffer  his 
reactions.  Dennis  realised  it. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  plague  you  with  my  minor 
afflictions !  " 

"  You  mustn't.  It's  an  insult,  rather  subtle,  but  still  an 
insult.  You're  really  giving  me  toys  to  play  with  when 
I'm  too  old  for  toys.  If  you  want  to  keep  me  quiet,  you 
mustn't  say  so  obviously — and  in  any  case  it's  unnecessary. 
If  you're  wanting  to  give  me  something — then  I  think  I'm 
worth  something  real." 

Anne  leant  across  to  Maurice,  who  sat  looking  forward 
along  the  road,  almost  oblivious  to  their  talk.  She  placed 
her  hand  upon  his  knee.  He  looked  round  sharply.  She 
said  nothing,  but  smiled  at  him,  and  he  smiled  in  return 
absently,  as  though  his  attention  was  set  elsewhere.  He 


STILL  LIFE  253 

bent  towards  her  and  touched  her  knee,  almost  perfunc- 
torily. Nevertheless,  there  was  love  in  his  gesture,  but 
very  soon  he  turned  back  to  look  at  the  road. 

"  There  he  is."  He  began  to  wave  violently.  "  It's 
Dixon.  We  can  get  the  letters.  Pull  up  for  Dixon,  please, 
Moon." 

Maurice  exchanged  greetings  with  the  little  grey-haired 
postman  and  took  the  letters.  "  There's  this  for  Mrs. 
Cradock  " — Dixon  spoke  interrogatively  and  held  out  a 
long  blue  envelope — "  but  addressed  care  of  you,  Mr. 
Temple,  sir."  The  wonderful  precision  of  the  postman's 
speech  always  amused  Maurice  ;  and  his  amusement  saved 
him  from  all  confusion. 

"Yes,  that's  all  right." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir.  A  good  morning  to  you,  madam. . . ." 
He  doffed  his  cap  and  trudged  on. 

Maurice  glanced  at  his  letter  while  he  handed  Anne 
hers.  "Bills,"  he  said,  assuming  a  carelessness  in  which 
neither  Anne  nor  Dennis,  nor  he  himself  had  any  confi- 
dence, and  stuffing  his  letters  away.  He  watched  Anne 
opening  her  long  envelope.  She  gratified  his  decorous 
curiosity  immediately,  putting  the  letter  in  his  lap.  It 
was  a  sedate  and  gentlemanly  intimation  that  the  Paulo- 
grad  Railway  Company,  being  debarred  by  the  rules  of 
their  constitution  from  declaring  a  higher  dividend  than 
7  %  (which,  as  they  courteously  reminded  their  esteemed 
shareholder,  they  had  paid  in  full  since  the  inception  of  the 
company),  had  decided  to  grant  each  holder  of  stock  a 
bonus  of  10  %  of  his  holding  in  stock ;  and  that  Mrs. 
Cradock's  portion  was  £300,  which  the  London  agents  of 
the  company  signified  their  willingness  to  realise  at  the 
market  rate  of  £105  7s.  6d.  per  £100  stock. 

"  Well,  that's  all  right,"  said  Maurice.  Dubiety  was 
mingled  with  his  delight  when  he  looked  at  her.  She 
seemed  indifferent  to  her  good  fortune,  and  to  be  watching 
only  for  his  pleasure.  But  he  was  not  wholly  pleased. 
Though  he  knew  he  shared  it,  the  thought  that  it  had  not 


254  STILL    LIFE 

been  his  own  made  him  envious.  He  tried  to  suppress  the 
foolish  feeling,  but  his  remark  proved  him  to  have  been 
hardly  successful. 

"  It's  an  enormous  lot  of  money,"  he  said. 

"  Show  it  to  Dennis.    Aren't  you  pleased  ?  " 

"  Of  course.    Aren't  you  ?  " 

With  her  eyes  alone  she  expressed  her  hesitation  to  pro- 
nounce. 

"  Very  handsome  of  Mr.  Kuraganoff,  Chairman,"  said 
Dennis. 

"  Three  hundred  and  fifteen — no,  sixteen  pounds,"  said 
Maurice  at  the  end  of  a  meditative  silence,  and  whistled. 

"  It  will  pay  those  wretched  bills  of  yours." 

"  The  odd  sixteen  would  be  enough  for  that — and  why 
should  you  ?  At  least  they  belong  to  my  past." 

Anne  felt  quite  cold  about  the  money.  She  tapped  her 
toes  on  the  floor  of  the  wagonette  to  warm  them,  and 
tapped  them  viciously.  The  thought  that  the  money 
should  have  seemed  God-given  had  everything  been  right 
made  her  miserable.  The  sunshine  that  would  have  turned 
the  gold  into  drops  of  fire  was  denied  her.  She  decided 
that  the  age  of  sunshine  was  for  her  ever  past,  and  she 
composed  herself  to  a  resolute  acceptance  of  life  as  it  is. 
For  all  that,  she  knew  that  something  was  dancing  and 
tingling  in  her.  To  clinch  herself  she  said  : 

"  I  think  it  would  have  been  as  well  if  we'd  let  that  letter 
go  home." 

"  We're  rather  early,"  said  Dennis,  looking  at  his  watch. 
They  were  driving  up  the  level  road  to  the  station. 
"  Twenty  minutes  to  spare."  They  drew  up  at  the  cross- 
ing. "  A  quarter  of  an  hour  when  we  get  there." 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  together. 

"  I'm  sorry  you're  going,  Dennis,"  said  Maurice.  "  When 
will  you  come  again  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  When  I  come  back  from  Sheffield — 
that's  three  weeks  ahead." 

"  Three  weeks,"  repeated  Maurice. 


STILL  LIFE  255 

Anne  had  stayed  behind  to  look  at  the  papers  on  the 
bookstall.  When  she  came  up  with  them  again,  Maurice 
said : 

"  Dennis  says  he  won't  be  down  again  for  three  weeks." 
The  sound  of  the  train  rumbling  over  the  long  wooden 
bridge  broke  in  upon  them.  They  turned  to  look,  and 
satisfied  that  the  train  was  in  sight,  turned  back  to  talk 
for  the  final  seconds. 

"  Three  weeks  ?  "  said  Anne.  "  I  don't  expect  we  shall 
be  here  then." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Maurice. 

"  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  the  best  thing  to  do  with 
some  of  that  money  is  for  us  to  have  a  real  holiday  abroad," 
said  Anne  to  Dennis. 

"  A  kind  of  honeymoon,"  said  he. 

The  train  burst  riotously  into  the  station.  Anne  shrank 
instinctively  back  from  the  wind  and  the  noise,  swinging 
sideways  from  the  train,  and  drawing  her  head  back  be- 
hind the  shelter  of  her  upraised  muff.  She  could  not  speak 
above  the  tumult.  Dennis  looked  at  her  as  he  caught  hold 
of  the  door  handle.  Behind  her  mufi  he  saw  her  make  a 
little  bow  of  assent  and  smile.  ..."  Yes,  a  kind  of  honey- 
moon," it  said.  She  stood  still  where  she  was  while  Maurice 
spoke  his  regret,  which  was  keen,  again. 

"  Well,  that's  a  surprise,"  said  Maurice.  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve she's  serious."  He  looked  back  as  though  with  the 
thought  of  finding  her  in  some  palpably  non-serious  atti- 
tude. The  train  began  to  move.  Dennis  put  out  his  head 
once  and  waved.  Anne  seemed  to  be  saying,  "  Yes,  a  kind 
of  honeymoon." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHILE  they  were  walking  in  the  town  after  Dennis  had 
gone  Anne  decided  there  was  no  occasion  for  a  piano.  She 
hesitated  in  front  of  the  big  shop  in  the  High  Street,  and 
suddenly  withdrew  her  foot  from  the  step,  taking  Maurice's 
arm  to  lead  him  away. 

"  No,  I  don't  want  one  yet,"  she  said. 

Maurice  felt  an  unaccountable  and  unreasonable  anger. 
"  But  why  not  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It'd  be  silly.  We  are  going  away  so  soon.  It  would 
only  be  a  waste  of  money  to  hire  a  piano  which  I  can't  use." 

"  So  you  really  have  decided  to  go  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Haven't  you  ?  "  Her  glance  conveyed  that  she 
had  spoken  his  mind  for  him. 

"  I  suppose  so.  ...  But  when  are  we  going  and  where  ?  " 

"  When  !  As  soon  as  this  business  of  the  shares  is 
finished.  It  takes  some  time,  not  long,  but  some  time. 
Where  !  well,  that'll  give  us  something  to  talk  about  till 
then." 

"  But  why  not  have  the  piano  ?  "  he  insisted.  In  a  way 
that  he  could  not  have  defined,  nor  wanted  to  define,  the 
piano  had  become  all-important.  "  Even  if  we  were  away 
two  months  it  wouldn't  cost  more  than  thirty  shillings — 
a  couple  of  pounds  at  most.  It's  not  as  though  it  were 
really  losing  money.  I'd  pay  for  it  myself." 

Her  purpose  was  serious  and  definite,  but  she  spoke 

gaily. 

'  You  don't  want  to  force  a  piano  upon  me,  when  I  say 
I  don't  want  it  ?    Or  do  you  intend  to  learn  on  it  yourself  ?}" 
He  did  not  accord  with  her  gaiety  ;  he  was  serious  too, 
and  impotent  to  suppress  his  seriousness. 

256 


STILL  LIFE  257 

"  If  you  say  that,  of  course  .  .  ." 

"  But  I  do  say  it.    I  have  said  it." 

:<  You  really  mean  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  What  are  you  looking  so  determined 
about  ?  I  don't  want  the  piano.  That's  over." 

;'  Yes,  that's  over." 

"  Why,  you  speak  as  though  you  had  committed 
suicide  !  "  He  did  not  believe  in  her  nonchalance.  He  was 
convinced  that  she  knew  the  piano  was  important.  Also 
he  knew  that  she  was  justified,  but  that  knowledge 
smouldered  without  bursting  into  flame,  depressing  him 
into  a  moody,  dishonest  hostility.  He  lied  to  her  though 
he  was  certain  that  she  would  not  believe  him ;  he  lied, 
because  he  was  certain  she  would  not  believe  him.  He 
would  let  her  feel,  but  would  not  let  her  know  what  was 
passing  inside  him. 

''  You  see  I'm  angry  with  myself  for  having  forgotten 
about  it  on  Saturday.  That's  really  the  matter.  If  you 
got  one  now  I  shouldn't  worry  so  much.  If  you  don't  I 
shall  always  be  accusing  myself,  being  miserable,  because 
I  forgot  about  the  piano." 

"  But  it  was  my  fault  more  than  yours.  There  wasn't 
anything  to  forgive,  but  I  forgave  completely,  long  before 
you  ever  came  back  with  Dennis  on  Saturday.  You 
mustn't  be  angry  with  yourself  for  that.  It's  too  ridiculous, 
really.  Believe  me,  I  haven't  given  it  a  thought  since.  No, 
it's  no  kind  of  an  excuse  for  forcing  a  piano  upon  me,  none 
at  all." 

"  I  suppose  it  isn't,"  he  said  moodily. 

They  walked  about  the  town,  after  Anne  had  visited  a 
few  shops.  Moon  was  not  starting  back  until  eleven  o'clock. 
Idly  they  wandered  under  the  old  archway  and  along  the 
Dean's  yard,  enclosed  by  sedate  and  delightful  houses, 
glistening  black  doors  in  a  setting  of  reddled  brick,  into  the 
cloisters,  cool  with  broken  vistas  of  a  fountained  lawn. 

"  How  did  you  like  Dennis,  while  he  was  here  ?  "  askod 
Anne. 


258  STILL  LIFE 

"  I'm  sorry  he's  gone  back.  .  .  .  Did  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  very  much — sometimes  not  at  all." 

"  He  thinks  an  awful  lot  of  you." 

"  Yes  !  "  Anne  was  hardly  interested  in  that.  "  I  like 
him  for  his  moments,"  she  went  on.  "  I'm  too  old  to 
accept  him  altogether." 

"  You  think  that's  what  I  do  ?  " 

"  Yes  .  .  .  why  not  ?  Even  in  his  worst  moments  there's 
something  quite  his  own,  if  not  quite  himself — I  mean  he's 
individual  enough  to  be  taken  in  the  lump.  Only  I  haven't 
enough  energy  to  respond  to  his  demands — perhaps  not 
enough  goodwill — I  can't  for  ever  be  running  false  tracks 
with  him  after  himself." 

Maurice  looked  enquiringly  at  her. 

"  He  knows  they're  false  before  he  begins.  .  .  .  He  knows 
perfectly  well  that  he  starts  with  a  sentimental  conception 
of  himself.  . .  .  There's  no  harm  in  that,  but  I  don't  see  why 
he  should  expect  me  to  accept  it  too  .  .  .  and  then  he  wants 
me  to  sympathise  with  his  reactions  against  his  own 
sentimentality. .  . .  No,  I  lose  patience  altogether  with  that. 
I  told  him  so  this  morning." 

"  But  surely,  he  can't  help  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  he  can.  ...  I  know  he  won't  try  to  drag  me 
into  it  again.  It's  only  a  kind  of  cruelty.  He  wants  to 
punish  everybody  for  his  own  sins  ;  so  he  appeals  to  your 
sympathy,  and  then  when  it  really  is  excited  and  you  again 
giving  him  all  you  have,  he  tells  you  point-blank  that  it's 
not  himself  after  all  that  you're  getting  concerned  about 
No,  I'm  too  old  for  that  now." 

"  But  you  do  like  him  ?  ...  I'd  hate  to  feel  that  you 
didn't.  He  was  the  only  friend  I  had." 

"  I  like  him  immensely,  and  always  have." 

"  Did  you  enjoy  that  walk  together  ?  " 

She  thought  and  said,  "  Yes,  he  had  some  of  his  better 
moments  then." 

"  What  did  you  talk  about  ?  .  .  .  I  often  wonder  what  he 
says  to  other  people." 


STILL  LIFE  259 

"  He  asked  me  why  I  went  away  with  you." 

"  Yes."  Maurice  felt  again  a  calm,  almost  an  indif- 
ference, in  Anne,  as  though  she  had  decided,  and  her 
decision  had  taken  all  urgent  meaning  from  the  past. 
That  was  impossible  for  him,  but  he  tried  to  assume  the 
manner. 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  said  I  came  because  I  thought  that  you  needed  me." 
Though  he  desired  to  ponder  what  she  said  and  kept 
silence  to  do  so,  he  could  not.  Strangely,  his  mind  seemed 
to  be  set  at  a  different  angle,  and  he  could  not  adjust  it. 
Her  words  fell,  as  it  were,  with  but  half  their  significance 
achieved.  But  he  felt  that  she  was  not  reluctant  to  answer 
his  questions.  Nor  was  she  eager. 

"  What  did  he  say  to  that  ?  ...  or  was  he  satisfied  ? " 
The  latter  question  was  an  instinctive  attempt  to  trap  her 
into  silence.  He  hastened  to  cover  it.  "  No — he  wouldn't 
have  been  satisfied,  anyhow." 

"  He  asked  whether  I  thought  that  you  needed  me — the 
whole  of  me,  that  is,  and  I  said  '  No.' ' 

"  Did  you  really  mean  that  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Maurice  stood  still  and  stared  at  the  fountain.  The 
springing  water  seemed  to  poise  immobile. 

They  turned  round  to  walk  the  length  of  the  cloister 
again.  Maurice  had  saved  himself  from  fully  realising  her 
word.  In  the  shell  of  his  mind  he  began  to  establish  a  case 
for  his  righteous  resentment.  That  Anne  had  said  he  did 
not  need  the  whole  of  her  was  not  a  revelation  of  his  short- 
comings, but  a  confession  that  she  had  been  the  first  to 
fail.  If  she  could  say  that  about  their  love — of  course  it 
was  not  true — how  could  she  love  him  ?  Love,  why  the 
very  essence  of  it  was  that  each  should  see  perfection  in  the 
other.  He  saw  her  perfection  and  loved  her.  She  saw,  she 
imagined  that  she  could  see  his  imperfection,  and  she 
couldn't  love  him,  not  really.  .  .  .  But  for  all  this  clamourous 
rhetoric  of  his  outer  mind,  which  he  dared  not  allow  to 


260  STILL  LIFE 

pass  into  speech,  there  was  another  argument  being  held 
and  other  conclusions  reached,  with  no  encouragement  of 
his,  in  the  inner  chambers. 

There  Anne's  word  was  felt  for  truth.  There  it  was  said 
that  he  saw  Anne's  perfection  and  rebelled  against  it,  if  he 
did  not  hate  her  for  it ;  that  Anne  saw  his  imperfection 
and  yet  loved  him  ;  that  he  was  conscious  of  his  imperfec- 
tion, yet  resented  a  love  that  was  conscious  of  it. 

The  two  arguments  spun  on  together,  until  a  cold  depres- 
sion descended  upon  him  and  drove  the  artificialities  of 
his  outer  mind  to  the  winds.  The  inner  thought  remained, 
hard  and  inevitable.  He  submitted,  simply  because  he 
had  no  more  the  force  to  repel  or  repress  it.  Therefore  it 
carried  no  consequences  and  set  moving  no  reactions.  At 
the  same  time  he  felt  its  truth,  and  did  not  feel  at  all.  A 
chill,  grey  mist  enwrapped  him,  and  in  him  there  was  only 
a  vague  desire  to  do  nothing  more,  but  to  be  borne  along 
by  the  impact  of  outward  things. 

Yet  he  was  keenly  sensible  of  his  silence  while  he  sat  in 
the  cart  opposite  Anne  on  the  way  homeward.  He  must 
explain  somehow.  Because  he  never  even  conceived  that 
he  might  confess  the  truth,  he  was  naively  surprised  and 
as  pleased  as  he  could  be  then,  that  his  words  were  so 
nearly  true. 

"  I  feel  dead,  absolutely  tired  out.  .  .  .  It's  the  reaction 
after  yesterday  .  .  .  and  the  day  before,"  he  added,  remem- 
bering that  yesterday  had  its  past. 

"  It's  terrible,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "  I  know  what  it's  like." 
She  looked  at  him  with  love  so  evident  that  he  was  almost 
comforted.  For  a  second  he  thought  that  she  had  really 
believed  him.  He  dismissed  the  thought,  rather  it  was 
driven  out  by  another,  that  she  had  read  her  meaning  into 
his  words  and  believed  that.  "  The  reaction  after  yester- 
day." He  wondered  how  much  she  knew — everything. 
Not  everything.  ...  He  hugged  the  memory  of  the  letter 
in  his  pocket,  though  he  knew  that  her  knowledge  might  be 
complete,  was  complete,  without  any  suspicion  of  a  letter. 


STILL  LIFE  261 

She  could  deduce  a  letter,  he  suddenly  thought,  from  his 
confession  on  Saturday  night.  He  began  to  be  angry  with 
his  foolishness ;  but  immediately  he  sank  back  into  the 
lethargy  from  which  he  had  waked. 

"  Aren't  you  cold,  Anne  ?  "  he  said.  She  shook  her 
head.  "  I  am,  terribly,"  he  said,  and  shivered  involun- 
tarily as  one  who  wakes  into  a  cold  room.  Cold  and  luke- 
warm ripples  passed  over  his  body  like  puffs  of  wind  on  a 
pool.  He  shivered  again,  violently. 

"  It  can't  be  far  to  go  now,"  said  Anne.  ..."  You  really 
need  a  change." 

The  steady  love  that  rang  unmistakably  in  her  words  be- 
wildered him.  If  it  had  not  been  so  plain,  he  could  have 
been  certain  that  she  was  tormenting  him  deliberately. 
"  Need  a  change."  But  Anne  couldn't  be  consciously 
cruel  to  him,  and  for  unconscious  cruelty  she  knew  too 
much.  He  hugged  the  thought  of  the  letter  ;  that  was  a 
secret  of  his  own,  at  least.  Yet  in  itself  he  hated  the  letter  ; 
it  was  potent  with  tortures  for  him.  Only  against  Anne 
was  it  a  thing  of  his  own  and  positive.  "  You  really  need 
a  change."  The  memory  of  her  words  revolted  against  his 
thoughts.  Their  sound  was  a  gentle  music  lingering  like 
the  note  of  bells,  rung  so  far  away  that  one  may  not  discern 
whether  they  or  his  fancy  is  playing.  :t  You  really  do  need 
a  change."  It  was  the  note  of  conviction.  Words  so 
spoken  were  true,  whatever  they  might  mean.  Perhaps 
he  did  need  a  change. 

Then  he  had  a  vision  of  a  new-found  self,  new-born  from 
the  womb  of  the  world,  radiant  in  sunny  lands,  and  careless. 
His  brain  played  him  a  familiar  trick  over  that  culminating 
word.  He  hesitated  for  a  hair's  breadth  of  time  to  wonder 
what  "  careless  "  really  meant,  and  he  waited  too  long. 
The  word  split  up  into  fantastic  syllables,  united  again 
into  serpentine  and  unintelligible  lines.  It  passed  from 
emptily  simple  into  the  kabbala  of  the  universe  and  back 
again  ;  and  when  he  held  it,  he  held  only  eight  signs  carven 
in  indecipherable  stone.  .  .  .  Then  returned  a  vision  of  him- 


262  STILL  LIFE 

self  moving  freely  over  hills  through  olive  woods,  scrambling 
down  a  sheer  path  to  a  beach,  launched  in  a  wonderful 
white  boat,  and  smiling  in  his  body,  responsive  to  all 
created  things.  He  plunged  eagerly  into  the  sunshine 
without  a  pause  to  laugh  at  his  own  romanticism.  The 
God-given  antidote  poured  through  his  veins.  He  was 
there.  The  blue  bay,  the  white  boat,  the  olive  woods  that 
clung  black  on  to  the  cliff-edge,  the  little  house  swung  in 
air  half-way  down  the  cliff,  the  golden  beach,  the  amazing 
winds,  and  the  radiance  of  the  sun  .  .  . 

"  Anne,"  through  his  voice,  she  heard  the  note  of 
guilty,  shamefaced,  boyish  laughter.  "  Anne  ...  I  am 
glad  we're  going  abroad."  He  sat  back  and  looked  at 
her  with  an  unsteady  smile,  rejoicing  in  the  light  that 
came  instantly  to  her  eyes.  Then  he  looked  from  right 
to  left,  forward  along  the  homeroad  and  behind,  for 
he  was  ashamed  that  she  should  see  the  waves  of  his 
unconquerable  laughter,  rippling  softly  and  incessantly 
through  him  to  a  final  plash  on  the  shore  which  he 
struggled  so  stoutly  to  deny  to  them.  So  they  reached 
home. 

Against  the  strong  rock  of  that  ecstatic  triumph  the 
tides  of  reaction  were  powerless.  He  was  very  happy,  and 
talked  to  her  for  many  hours  every  day  of  the  places  they 
would  visit.  Paris,  of  course.  You  had  to  go  there  to  get 
anywhere,  but  they  would  only  stay  there  a  couple  of  days. 
In  any  case  they  knew  Paris.  They  compared  recollections 
of  travel,  above  all  recollections  of  Paris,  whereto  Maurice's 
travel  had  been  chiefly  confined.  Anne  was  not  unpre- 
pared to  find  that  he  knew  a  different  Paris  from  hers  ;  but 
he  was  amazed  that  she  knew  so  little  of  his,  and  he  re- 
mained rather  doubtful  whether  hers  truly  existed.  A 
boat  on  the  Rhone  from  Lyons,  the  Mediterranean  coast 
from  Pyrenees  to  Alps.  Corsica — he  gave  her  his  vision, 
and  generously  made  a  place  for  her  upon  the  golden  beach, 
which  he  set  in  the  island — Siena,  Assisi — he  even  quoted 


STILL  LIFE  263 

Propertius — Sicily,  the  Adriatic,  Spalato — he  reminded  her 
that  there  was  a  war  or  something  at  Durazzo — Corfu,  and 
why  not  Greece  and  the  Islands  ? 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Anne.  She,  too,  was  wonderfully 
happy,  but  controlled  and  determined,  as  when  she  in- 
sisted against  his  indignant  protests,  on  giving  him  one 
hundred  of  the  unexpected  pounds. 

"  It's  better  that  you  should  not  have  to  ask  me  for 
money,"  she  said.  "  It  is  not  fair  to  you."  Grudgingly,  he 
gave  way.  Again  she  insisted  that  he  should  order  new 
clothes,  when  they  went  together  to  cash  the  broker's 
cheque  in  London. 

"  I  don't  want  them.    Besides,  they'll  take  a  week." 

"  Not  if  you  insist  on  having  them  in  four  days.  ...  I 
think  you  have  to  live  in  my  manner,  not  I  in  yours.  It's 
only  a  question  of  age." 

Inside  the  shop  he  was  pleased  to  be  buying  clothes.  It 
was  easy  and  delightful.  Moreover,  it  was  Anne  who 
insisted  with  the  tailor. 

"  But  what  a  lot  of  money  we're  spending,"  he  said, 
half  in  remonstrance,  half  in  admiration,  when  they 
emerged  into  the  street. 

"  There  are  times,"  she  replied,  "  when  spending  is  one 
of  the  great  joys,  one  of  the  real  ones.  It  sounds  cheap, 
I  know  ;  but  it's  true." 

Maurice  was  content  with  that,  on  the  strength  of  his 
own  new  experience.  It  was,  indeed,  very  new  to  him,  and, 
when  they  reached  home,  after  four  days  in  a  quiet  hotel, 
he  pulled  out  his  pocket-book  in  his  own  little  room  in 
order  to  bring  himself  to  earth  again.  He  read  the  letter 
and  was  something  moved  by  it,  but  so  little  that  he  said 
to  himself,  "  It's  amazing  how  soon  I  can  be  dead  to  a 
thing  like  this."  He  made  up  his  mind  to  burn  the  letter, 
but  when  he  had  gone  circuitously  to  reach  the  kitchen 
fire,  he  replaced  it  in  his  case.  "  After  all,  it's  a  relic,"  he 
said. 

They  decided  to  start  in  the  three  days'  time.    A  letter 


264  STILL  LIFE 

from  Dennis,  lecturing  in  Sheffield,  enquiring  curiously 
whether  the  plan  still  held,  and  asking  that,  if  it  did,  they 
would  send  him  some  account  of  the  places  they  were  going 
to  and  the  time  they  would  be  there,  because  he  had  an 
idea  that  Sheffield  had  finished  him,  compelled  them  to  fix 
a  day  for  his  information.  Anne  fixed  on  Sunday,  "  be- 
cause," she  said,  "  travelling  in  England  on  Sunday  is  so 
terrible  that  there's  a  double  thrill  in  travelling  away  from 
it."  Maurice  replied  to  Dennis  accordingly  that  they  were 
starting  for  Paris  on  Sunday,  from  whence  they  would  go 
on  to  Lyons  and  the  Rhone  boat ;  but  they  did  not  know 
how  long  they  were  to  stay  in  Paris. 

"  We  were  only  going  to  stay  a  couple  of  days,"  he  wrote, 
"  but  Anne  has  since  been  rather  full  of  the  idea  that  she 
would  like  to  stay  there  longer,  and  know  my  Paris.  I 
suppose  that  means  that  I  shall  have  to  know  hers.  And 
that  may  take  a  good  deal  longer  than  two  days.  In  any 
case,  I'll  write  to  you  immediately  we  get  there,  and 
certainly  tell  you  when  we  are  going  away.  We  are  both 
very  excited." 

He  looked  across  the  table  with  the  end  of  the  pen  in  his 
mouth  before  addressing  the  envelope.  "  If  we're  going  to 
have  a  fortnight  in  Paris,"  he  said,  "  and  do  the  same  right 
up  to  Durazzo,  Greece  and  the  Islands,  it's  a  good  job  you 
didn't  get  that  piano,  Anne."  He  coloured  as  he  said  it, 
and  to  cover  himself  he  said : 

"  Durazzo,  Greece  and  the  Islands. ...  It  would  be  worth 
while  being  a  porter  to  have  that  to  shout  on  a  platform, 
don't  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Anne. 

END   OF  PART  I 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

"  ANNE,  it  was  last  Monday  week  that  we  came  over  here, 
wasn't  it  ?  Yes,  it  must  have  been.  I  can  remember  the 
days  all  right,  if  I  think  about  them.  .  .  .  It's  hard  to  think 
about  them  properly,  because  they  haven't  been  days  at 
all — weeks  or  seasons.  ...  I  mean  it's  nonsense  to  say  that 
we've  only  been  here  a  week  and  a  day.  One  could  do  that 
anywhere,  be  a  week  and  a  day  in  Sheffield  even.  ...  I 
don't  know  what  has  come  over  me,  perhaps  it's  only  lazi- 
ness, but  I  feel  that  I  couldn't  move  on,  not  even  to  Lyons, 
until  this  comes  to  an  end  naturally.  .  .  .  Everything's  so 
clear,  so  certain.  It's  probably  only  the  air,  after  all.  Look 
at  those  men  down  there." 

They  were  sitting  together  on  the  balcony  of  a  small  and 
admirable  hotel  close  to  the  Opera,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Maurice  was  pointing  to  a  French  workman  in 
a  blouse,  with  black  moustaches,  who  was  clattering  a  pas 
seul  in  the  middle  of  the  cobbled  street  below.  Another 
blue-bloused  workman,  and  a  woman,  bareheaded,  wrapped 
in  a  shawl,  and  approaching  fatness,  stood  still  on  the 
pavement  to  laugh  at  their  friend.  In  a  moment  he  stopped 
his  dance  abruptly,  ran,  holding  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
with  little  steps  back  to  his  companions. 

The  three  went  down  the  street  together,  the  two  men 
singing,  arm  in  arm,  and  the  woman  pausing  every  now  and 
then  that  some  of  her  laughter  might  bubble  up,  as  it  were, 
to  the  surface  of  her  body. 

"  I  feel  rather  like  that,"  said  Maurice,  "or  if  I  don't 

265 


266  STILL  LIFE 

feel  exactly  like  that,  I  can  understand  it  perfectly  well. 
I  always  had  a  pretty  good  opinion  of  Paris  ;  but  I  never 
gave  it  credit  for  this  kind  of  thing." 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  said  Anne.  "  I  don't  think  that  I  would 
have  a  single  thing  altered — nothing  that's  happened  since 
we  crossed  in  the  boat.  It's  all  been  new  even  to  me.  I 
could  hardly  believe  it  was  Versailles  yesterday — and  I 
was  once  there  at  school.  .  .  .  But  only  one  term." 

"  What  wonderful  stuff  that  coat  is  made  of.  I  can't 
help  looking  at  it."  Maurice  took  hold  of  Anne's  sleeve, 
and  felt  the  pearly  grey  cloth.  It  was  very  soft,  and  it 
glinted  with  something  of  silver  in  the  morning  sun. 
"  That's  the  tenth  time  I've  done  that  this  morning,  at 
least.  .  .  .  For  Heaven's  sake  tell  me  to  leave  off." 

"  Why  ?  Every  time  you  do  it,  you  justify  my  own 
extravagance.  Say  a  louis  a  time ;  and  you  have  to 
admire  it  once  more  at  least  to  make  275  francs.  You 
know  that's  what  I  paid  for  it,  don't  you  ? 

"To  me  it  seems  ridiculously  cheap.  .  .  .  No,  really,  I 
mean  it.  I  know  I  should  never  be  able  to  spend  eleven 
pounds  on  a  coat  and  skirt  in  England.  But  here  it's 
different,  quite  different." 

Anne  stood  up,  thrusting  her  hands  into  the  deep  pockets 
of  the  long  coat.  A  collar  of  brilliant  blue  silk  curved  up 
almost  to  her  ears. 

"  You  do  look  beautiful." 

"  I  feel  beautiful." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  but  that  must  be  a  glorious  feeling." 
He  leant  against  the  balcony  rail.  "  Do  you  know  I've 
thought  about  that  several  times  during  the  week,  what  it 
must  be  like  for  a  woman  to  know  she  is  beautiful.  .  .  .  This 
is  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  ever  realised  what  a  beautiful 
woman  is."  He  spoke  as  confessing.  "  Of  course  I've 
seen  them — but  I've  never  been  really  near  one  before. 
While  we  were  in  the  country  I  didn't  notice  you.  I  believe 
it's  because  you've  been  different  since  we  came  over  here. 
But,  to  be  intimate  with  a  beautiful  woman  .  .  .  it's  really 


STILL  LIFE  267 

a  new  world  to  me.  To  realise  it  you  have  to  study  it. 
Until  now  I  always  thought  that  women  just  were  beautiful. 
I  mean  that  beauty  was  a  sort  of  accident.  Now  I  have  an 
idea  that  to  be  beautiful  for  a  woman  could  be — perhaps 
it  ought  to  be — the  end." 

"  And  I've  taught  you  that !  I  hope  I  haven't  turned  you 
into  a  voluptuary.  ...  I  can't  help  it.  You  make  me  very 
happy  when  you  say  that.  Even  it  makes  me  feel  more 
beautiful  still."  Anne  smiled  at  him.  "  That's  mutual 
honesty  at  any  rate." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  degenerating  or  not,  but  do 
you  know,  Anne,  at  that  place  where  we  had  dinner  last 
night,  I  felt  a  real  thrill  because  everything  was  so 
exquisite  and  you  were  so  wonderful.  It  was  quite  new 
to  me,  I  felt  it  was  quite  right  for  everything  to  be  so 
expensive — it  was  expensive,  wasn't  it  ? — I'm  sure  I 
shouldn't  have  been  half  so  excited  or  happy  if  things  had 
been  the  proper  price." 

"  That's  my  Paris  doing  its  work.  .  .  .  But  I  wonder  if 
you  have  the  same  feeling  as  I  have.  I've  had  it  before 
here,  but  then  it  was  only  a  shadow  of  what  it  is  now.  .  .  . 
It  feels  to  me  so  splendidly  dangerous.  As  if  it  might 
suddenly  all  disappear  like  a  feast  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  I 
always  have  somebody  at  my  elbow  saying,  '  It  never  can 
happen  again ' ;  that  makes  me  so  aware  of  everything. 
I  think  that  I  never  can  forget  the  smallest  thing  that 
happens.  It's  not  that  I'm  sad — but  my  nerves  are  all 
alert  and  noticing,  simply  because  they  will  never  have 
the  chance  to  notice  these  things  again." 

Maurice  looked  anxious.  "  But  do  you  really  believe  it 
never  can  happen  again  ?  " 

"  It's  not  a  case  of  believing.  I  don't  believe  and  I 
don't  think.  It's  just  a  feeling  that's  always  there  whether 
I  want  it  or  not.  I  don't  even  go  so  far  as  not  to  want  it. 
It  gives  everything  a  quality  ;  it  makes  them  unforgettable. 
.  . .  And,  after  all,  why  should  things  happen  again  ?  They 
might  be  dull  the  second  time.  No  ...  I  love  the  things 


268  STILL  LIFE 

that  come  to  me  with  '  never  again '  written  on  their 
foreheads.  What's  more,  I  think  they're  the  only  real 
ones." 

"  Perhaps  you're  right.  I  don't  know.  I  shouldn't  dare 
to  think — to  feel — that.  It  makes  me  so  terribly  miserable. 
Even  your  talking  about  it  has  made  me  sad." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that's  why  you  don't  feel  it  ... 
because  you  don't  allow  yourself  to.  But  tell  me,  honestly, 
isn't  half  your  feeling  that  this  last  week's  been  so  wonder- 
ful, just  the  same  as  mine  ?  " 

"I  dare  say  it  is,  but  I  can't  believe  it.  I  can't  afford  to. 
No.  ...  I  don't  believe  it's  really  true  either.  ..." 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  matter,  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  I  think  it  does." 

"  Why  ?  Things  never  do  happen  again.  The  reason 
why  I  feel  it  so  much  now  is  that  this  has  been — is  very 
wonderful.  And  if  it  ever  comes  to  regretting  that  things 
won't  come  again,  it  will  be  this  and  things  like  this  I  shall 
regret.  But  there's  nothing  terrible  in  that.  How  many 
people  have  something  that  they  can  truly  regret,  some- 
thing so  fine  that  even  in  regretting  it,  they  are  happy  ? 
No,  I  shan't  be  one  of  a  crowd,  nor  you.  But  really  it 
doesn't  matter.  You'll  risk  its  happening  again  all  the 
same,  and  it  won't  come  again.  It  may  be  better  or  it  may 
be  worse,  but  it  won't  be  the  same.  I  took  the  risk  in 
coming  back  to  my  Paris — and  this  is  what  came  of  it. 
You're  going  to  take  the  risk  when  you  begin  to  show  me 
yours.  .  .  .  Please  don't  look  sad.  It's  only  one  of  my 
philosophies.  I'm  sure  it's  very  crude  and  feminine." 

"  I'm  sure  it  isn't.  But  it  frightens  me,  that's  all.  I 
can't  understand  why  it  doesn't  frighten  you." 

She  seemed  to  ponder  for  a  little  while.  "I  wonder  why. 
I  have  a  vague  idea  that  it  might  be  the  cynicism  of  age. 
After  all,  I  am  old — very  old.  And  I  can  see  that  it  might 
sound  cynical  to  you.  But  that  can't  be  the  reason.  I 
can't  remember  when  I  didn't  have  the  same  idea.  It's 
part  of  my  temperament.  Does  it  make  me  happier  or 


STILL  LIFE  269 

sadder,  I  wonder  ?  .  .  .  Happier,  I'm  sure.  I  seem  to  taste 
everything.  .  .  . 

"  But  what  about  your  friend — Ramsay,  wasn't  it  ? 
You  said  we  were  going  to  see  him,  and  have  tea  this  after- 
noon. Is  that  decided,  or  have  you  changed  your  plans  ? 
I'm  under  your  management  from  to-day  on,  remember." 

"  Yes,  we'll  do  that,  but  I  ought  to  have  written  to  him. 
I'll  send  a  bleu.  It'll  get  to  him  before  one  o'clock,  and  I 
must  see  about  the  room  for  Dennis.  I  wish  he'd  been 
sensible  and  told  us  exactly  when  he's  coming.  Even  if  he 
came  immediately  he  sent  the  telegram,  he  wouldn't  arrive 
till  to-morrow  morning.  At  least  I  don't  think  so." 
Maurice  pulled  the  crumpled  telegram  from  his  pocket, 
read  once  more,  "  Sheffield's  done  it.  Coming  Paris,"  and 
laughed.  "  It's  Dennis  all  over.  He  sent  that  at  twenty- 
past  eight  this  morning.  I  bet  he  was  awake  all  night 
trying  to  decide.  Even  if  he  sent  it  on  his  way  to  the 
station  he  wouldn't  be  in  time  for  the  afternoon  boat.  He 
might,  though.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'd  better  go  to  see 
about  a  room  now  to  be  quite  safe.  He'll  have  to  pay  if  he 
comes  late.  And  I'll  write  to  Bill.  .  .  .  That's  Ramsay. 
Everybody  calls  him  '  Bill.' ' 

He  went  back  into  the  sitting-room  and  sat  down  at  a 
little  table  to  write.  The  smooth  polished  table,  the  fair 
note-paper  discreetly  stamped  "Hotel  d' Avignon,"  the  clean 
blotter,  the  shining  inkstand,  all  decorously  invited  his 
attention  and  combined  to  make  the  writing  of  notes  a 
pleasure.  He  could  have  written  to  all  his  friends,  nearly 
all  forgotten  friends,  for  the  mere  luxury  of  it.  The  sense 
that  life  was  perfectly  modulated  in  that  room  laid  hold 
of  him  again,  and  he  glanced  backward  through  the  long 
window  at  Anne,  who  leant  over  the  balcony  and  watched 
the  street  below.  He  could  not  restrain  his  feeling  of  pride 
that  he  was  with  her  in  the  room.  The  room  was  hers, 
even  if  it  was  common  to  both  of  them.  It  was  her  hotel 
and  the  room  her  choosing.  He  was  not  yet  free  from  his 
surprising  discovery  that  a  hotel  could  be  so  quietly  perfect 


270  STILL  LIFE 

that  Anne  seemed  to  be  settled  in  her  own  possessions 
while  she  stayed  there.  And  he  himself,  he  thought,  had 
fitted  in  with  the  surroundings.  No,  it  was  not  snobbish- 
ness that  made  him  happy  to  be  with  her  in  a  place  like 
that.  That  was  how  fife  ought  to  be  lived,  with  some 
exquisite  refinement  in  its  very  commonplaces.  It  made 
you  strong  to  go  your  own  way.  He  did  not  worry  about 
anything  any  more.  Instead,  he  was  perfectly  content  to 
follow  in  Anne's  train  and  enjoy.  If  you  always  approached 
life  from  that  angle  it  would  always  be  wonderful.  That 
was  the  real  secret  of  last  week. 

The  thoughts  that  wreathed  about  him  were  not  thoughts 
at  all,  for  they  never  formed.  He  was  too  thoroughly  in 
tune  with  his  regimen  to  feel  more  than  a  pervading  con- 
tentment. There  was  nothing  to  irritate  and  stimulate 
him  into  thinking.  He  looked  at  Anne  again.  She  had 
turned  and  was  looking  into  the  room  at  him,  leaning  back 
with  her  elbows  rested  upon  the  balcony  rail ;  and  he, 
involuntarily  smiling,  got  up  and  went  towards  her. 

"  Anne,  I  don't  think  I'll  send  a  note  to  Ramsay.  I'll 
go  myself.  If  he's  not  in,  I  can  find  somebody  else.  Be- 
sides, it'll  be  good  to  walk  over  the  river,  through  the 
Luxembourg,  Won't  you  come  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  better  you  should  go  alone — I'll  stay  out  here 
and  read  a  book.  You'll  be  back  soon  ?  By  one  o'clock  ?  " 

"  Easily.  .  .  .  It's  not  very  far.  Or  distances  don't  seem 
to  be  very  much  here." 

"  Well,  I'll  wait  for  you  here.  .  .  .  Are  you  sure  you  want 
me  to  go  with  you  this  afternoon  ?  I'd  be  quite  happy  by 
myself  if  you'd  rather  go  alone." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  come.  It  was  arranged.  Besides, 
you'll  like  Ramsay.  I  only  wanted  to  run  over  and  see  if 
he  was  in." 

"  Very  well,  but  won't  you  have  lunch  together  ? ' 

"  I  don't  suppose  so  ...  I'll  come  back  for  it." 

"  I  won't  expect  you,  anyhow,  so  that  you're  free." 

"  Au  revoir." 


STILL  LIFE  271 

He  went  into  the  bedroom  and  put  on  a  coat  and  hat. 
He  was  very  pleased  that  Anne  had  made  him  buy  clothes 
before  he  came  away,  and  now  he  was  gently  elated,  that 
his  grey  coat  looked  so  neatly  bright  and  fitted  him  so  well. 
He  went  back  to  say  good-bye  again,  really  to  be  inspected 
by  Anne.  She  did  not  fail  him. 

"  I  think  you  look  very  well  in  that  coat,  very  well  in- 
deed," she  shifted  it  a  little  on  his  shoulders. 

Happily  conscious  of  well-being  he  went  down  the  stairs. 
His  conversation  with  the  lady  at  the  bureau  about  the 
room  for  Dennis  went  more  easily  than  a  like  conversation 
had  ever  gone  before,  and  in  French  of  uncommon  fluency. 
He  surprised  himself  by  arranging  that  should  Dennis  not 
arrive  until  the  morrow  he  would  not  be  called  upon  to  pay 
for  the  night,  and  the  lady  surprised  him  by  acquiescing 
without  the  least  protestation.  He  walked  quickly  into 
the  Tuileries. 

A  clear  blue  sunlight  shone  on  the  pink  marble  of  the  arc 
Carrousel.  A  fresh  spring  breeze  leapt  up  and  down  upon 
the  cobbles  of  the  roadway.  The  busy  motor  buses  emerged 
swiftly  from  the  arches  and  buzzed  like  noisy  summer 
beetles  round  the  curve.  Anne's  words — "  It  never  can 
happen  again  " — came  into  his  mind.  He  replied  to  them 
by  wondering  why  it  should  ever  stop.  Even  while  he 
agreed  to  the  vague  suggestion  that  things  had  to  have  an 
end,  he  could  see  none.  As  for  money,  there  was  Anne's. 
Besides,  he  could  surely  earn  something,  sooner  or  later. 
He  might  really  sit  down  and  write  a  book.  That  was  an 
uncanny  way  of  looking  at  things,  that  of  Anne's.  He  did 
not  have  long  to  shudder  over  it,  for  he  immediately  began 
to  think  of  Ramsay.  It  was  delightful  to  be  going,  unex 
pected,  to  his  studio.  Ramsay  would  be  so  glad  to  see  him. 
He  always  was  glad.  Maurice  began  to  anticipate  his 
welcome.  Ramsay  would  smile,  with  a  trace  of  bewilder- 
ment, then  grip  his  hand  :  "  Hullo,  Temple  !  I'm  shaving," 
although  the  lather  on  his  face  was  so  obvious.  He  would 
walk  about  the  room  for  half  an  hour  then,  continually 


272  STILL  LIFE 

stroking  his  shining  face  with  his  brush,  never  wholly  for- 
getting that  he  was  engaged  in  his  toilet,  never  quite 
remembering. 

The  sudden  fancy  that  Eamsay  might  not  be  at  home 
spurred  him  to  run.  He  was  up  the  stairs  and  ringing  at 
the  bell  before  he  could  be  rid  of  the  fancy.  Immediately 
he  heard  some  steps  within,  and  was  once  more  happy  with 
expectation. 

The  door  opened.  "  Hullo,  Temple  !  "  Maurice  could 
hardly  believe  it  was  he,  so  perturbed  had  he  been.  The 
dressing-gown,  the  smooth  black  hair,  the  dark  eyes  that 
kindled  when  they  looked  at  him,  the  tall  white  sunny 
studio  behind,  they  were  more  like  the  sudden  realisation 
of  a  dream  than  a  steady  reality.  He  almost  gasped  with 
delight. 

"I'm  just  up,"  said  Ramsay. 

"  I  knew  you'd  say  that." 

Ramsay  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  a  smile  began  to 
light  in  his  eyes.  "  I  always  seem  to  be  just  getting  up. 
Is  that  it  ?  " 

Maurice  nodded.  "  I  couldn't  help  wondering  as  I  came 
along  what  you'd  say.  I  decided  that  would  be  some  of  it. 
I  thought  you'd  be  shaving,  too." 

"  Only  just  beginning."  He  pointed  to  his  brush  and 
water  standing  ready  in  a  corner.  "  What  on  earth  is  the 
time  ?  " 

"  About  half-past  eleven.  Perhaps  a  bit  more  than  that. 
Say  a  quarter  to  twelve." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  Ramsay  looked  absorbed,  as  though  he 
were  trying  to  translate  the  information  into  a  language 
of  his  own.  "  Isn't  it  a  wonderful  day  ?  "  He  walked  over 
to  his  big  windows  and  drew  the  light  curtains  wide.  The 
sunlight  poured  in,  broken  into  a  thousand  tiny  jets  of  cool 
light  by  the  leaves  of  a  tree  outside,  newly  unfolded.  They 
stood  together  by  the  window  and  looked  out  upon  the  yard 
below.  A  cart  squatted  lazily  upon  its  beam  end,  like  a  dog 
on  its  haunches. 


STILL  LIFE  273 

"  How  have  you  been  getting  on,  Temple,  since  I  saw 
you  in  London  ?  .  .  .  Why,  it  must  be  a  couple  of  years  and 
more  since  you  were  here,  isn't  it  ?  It's  not  changed  so 
very  much.  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  Someone — I 
forgot  who — told  me  you  were  writing  on  some  paper  or 
other." 

"  I  was,  but  I've  given  it  up  now — for  the  present  at  any 
rate.  I'm  on  a  holiday.  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  same  thing.  You  won't  remember  any  of  this 
stuff.  Nearly  all  of  it's  new.  At  least  there's  none  of  it 
more  than  two  years  old.  You  see  they've  just  made  up 
their  minds  to  take  a  fancy  to  me  as  I  was  ten  years  ago. 
I've  sold  all  the  stuff  that  I  thought  was  studio  lumber. 
It's  a  pity  I  haven't  got  any  more  of  it.  But  when  they 
get  to  the  point  of  asking  me  why  I  don't  still  paint  the 
same  way  as  I  did  ten  years  ago,  it's  rather  annoying — 
yes,  rather  annoying.  .  .  . 

"  Still,  I've  made  more  money  out  of  my  old  pictures  in 
a  year  than  I  have  out  of  my  new  ones  in  five.  But  then, 
it's  only  money.  If  someone  came  and  gave  me  two 
hundred  for  this  " — he  pointed  to  a  large  canvas,  an  ample 
design  of  dancing  men  and  women — "  it  wouldn't  be  only 
money.  That's  too  much  to  expect  though.  .  .  .  Will  you 
have  some  tea  ?  It's  my  breakfast  making  that  noise  in 
there."  A  kettle  lid  slammed  and  clattered  behind  a  door. 

They  sat  down  on  a  sofa  beside  a  low  table.  Ramsay 
made  tea  with  a  deliberate  care,  swathing  the  blue  teapot 
round  with  a  cloth.  The  tea  stood  like  clear  amber  in  the 
cup.  Maurice  watched  the  smooth  black  hair  on  his  head 
as  he  bent  down  to  cut  bread,  and  thought  that  Ramsay, 
too,  was  perfect,  the  perfect  accomplisher  of  his  purposes. 

"  How  long  are  you  stopping  here  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure.  We  were  going  on  to  Lyons  at  the  end 
of  the  week,  but  we  may  be  longer  now." 

Ramsay  went  on  cutting.  ;'  You'd  best  stay  awhile, 
while  the  weather  is  like  this.  It's  really  possible  to  live 
in  a  Paris  spring,  I  feel  alive.  I  could  do  anything— and 


274  STILL  LIFE 

eat  anything.    But  I  stick  to  porridge  and  brown  bread 
in  the  morning.    It's  a  habit  now." 

Maurice  had  time  to  bring  himself  to  explain  the  "  we." 
"  You  didn't  know  I  was  married,  did  you  ?  My  wife's 
over  here  with  me." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  Ramsay  gave  him  again  the  look  of 
half-comprehension.  "  How  long  have  you  been  married  ? ' ' 

"  Only  a  month." 

Ramsay  nodded.  "  Don't  believe  in  it  myself.  It  would 
interfere  with  me.  .  .  .  But  why  didn't  you  bring  Madame 
along  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  bring  her  to  tea  this  afternoon." 

"  That's  a  good  idea.  I'm  not  working  to-day.  There's 
Miss  Etheredge  coming  this  afternoon.  But  that  won't 
matter.  You  know  her." 

"  All  the  better,"  said  Maurice. 

"  Do  I  know  your  wife  ?    Who  was  she  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  do.    She  was  a  Mrs.  Cradock." 

Again  Ramsay  accepted  the  information  in  the  same 
way.  He  seemed  to  be  attending  with  one  self,  while  the 
other  went  on  being  Ramsay. 

"  Not  the  wife  of  the  writer-fellow  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say.    Cradock's  a  dramatic  critic." 

"  Gave  him  a  real  drama  to  criticise,  did  you  ?  Quite  a 
good  idea.  ...  Do  you  know,  for  a  moment  I  thought  you 
had  married  that  girl  you  used  to  be  about  with  here.  You 
remember  that  night  I  met  you  at  that  little  restaurant. 
...  By  the  way,  what's  become  of  that  young  chap — 
French,  wasn't  it — who  was  with  you  then  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  heard  of  him  for  years — only  once  since  we 
were  here  together.  He  was  somewhere  out  in  Russia, 
when  I  had  a  letter  from  him." 

"  Nice  chap." 

"  He's  a  good  sort,"  Maurice  agreed. 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't  marry  that  girl.  What  was  the 
good  ?  They  don't  expect  to  be  married ;  but  they're 
ready  to  take  a  chance  when  they  see  a  soft  thing.  You 


STILL  LIFE  275 

were  a  bit  soft  in  those  days,  Temple.  .  .  .  And  I  wouldn't 
marry  a  French  girl,  anyhow,  if  I  had  to  marry.  Then  you 
came  up  against  a  bit  of  real  solid  France,  quite  different 
from  the  kind  of  thing  you  have  here.  I  was  down  by 
Bordeaux — thirty  miles  away — this  summer.  It  was  a 
good  job  I  went  for  the  summer  and  not  for  the  people. 
They're  just  a  little  bit  tougher  than  the  people  in  a  small 
Scotch  town.  No,  it'd  take  you  all  your  time  to  survive 
if  you  got  wedged  into  that." 

Maurice  hesitated,  then  with  an  assumed  carelessness, 
said  :  "I  don't  think  she  was  that  kind  of  girl,  all  the 
same." 

"  No,  they  never  are. . . .  She  was  a  nice  quiet  girl  though. 
I  liked  her.  Do  you  remember  when  we  went  to  the  cafe 
the  night  I  met  you  ?  I  never  forgot  how  she  sat  next  to 
you,  fairly  weeping  with  toothache,  while  you  explained 
Bergson  to  me,  and  I  put  up  Bill  Crookes'  electrons.  I'm 
still  the  same.  I  can  go  on  talking  about  'em  for  hours. 
I  should  think  I  spend  half  my  life  talking.  It's  a  good 
thing  to  do  when  you  can't  work  any  more.  Have  you 
brought  any  new  theories  over  with  you  ?  .  .  .  What 
about  that  Italian  fellow  you  told  me  about  the  last 
time  you  were  here  ?  I've  never  heard  anything  about 
him  since." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  he  has  written  anything  more. 
.  .  .  No,  I  haven't  got  any  theories.  I'm  getting  dull.  .  .  . 
Things  don't  seem  to  be  anything  like  as  simple  as  they 
used  to  be.  I  envy  you  ;  you  have  a  job  and  stick  to  it. 
Your  life  doesn't  get  more  complicated  at  all  events,  even 
if  it  doesn't  get  simpler." 

"  Oh,  I  paint  just  as  another  fellow  builds  a  steam-engine 
or  a  bridge — just  because  I  have  to.  I  don't  know  whether 
it  makes  everything  easier.  I  suppose  it  is  solid  enough  to 
stand  on  though." 

"  You've  always  got  a  point  of  view,  and  a  pretty  steady 
one.  I  haven't  one  at  all.  I  used  to  have  yours,  but  it 
didn't  wear  well  for  me," 


276  STILL  LIFE 

"  There's  something  in  that.  .  .  .  But  why  don't  you  get 
something  out  of  writing  ?  It's  the  same  kind  of  thing  as 
painting,  surely  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,  but  I  always  stop  to  wonder  with  it's  all  for. 
If  I'd  got  the  habit  of  writing  first  and  started  to  wonder 
afterwards  it  would  have  been  all  right.  That's  how  you 
started  painting,  isn't  it  ?  But  now  I  have  to  convince 
myself  that  there's  something  in  it  first.  I  haven't  suc- 
ceeded yet.  The  only  thing  I  can  see  myself  doing  is  to 
write  a  book  to  show  that  everybody  else  is  on  the  wrong 
track.  A  devil  of  a  lot  of  good  that  would  be  if  I  couldn't 
say  which  was  the  right  one.  And  even  if  I  knew  the  right 
one,  I  couldn't  reply  very  much  to  anyone  who  said, 
4  Show  us  some  of  your  stuff.' ' 

"  But  couldn't  you  get  an  idea  out  of  these  Egyptian 
fellows  ?  They  seem  to  have  been  pretty  all  right  at  the  art 
business.  Didn't  they  write  anything  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  as  far  as  I  know  it's  the  kind  of  stuff  the 
Pyramids  might  have  written,  facts  about  armies  and  wars 
and  gods,  nothing  else.  It  looks  as  though  they  didn't 
believe  in  literature." 

"  Thought  it  was  too  sentimental,  altogether  ?  " 

"  Something  like  that." 

"  I'm  glad  I  didn't  make  a  mistake  and  become  a  bloody 
poet." 

"  So  am  I.  ...  But  perhaps  something'll  turn  up.  I'll 
make  some  amazing  discovery.  It's  not  so  easy,  though." 

"  It  don't  cost  much  to  start,  anyway.  Two  penn'orth 
of  paper  and  a  pencil — that's  enough  for  a  masterpiece. 
You  look  at  my  bill  for  colours  and  canvas,  and  I  have  to 
have  a  studio — why,  it  costs  a  small  fortune  to  set  up  in  the 
trade." 

"  That's  true.  But  I  do  believe  writing's  more  difficult, 
at  least  harder  to  hit  off  in  a  straight  line  and  go  on  in.  ... 
Lots  of  people  find  it  devilishly  easy,  and  successful.  I 
despise  'em  all,  but  that  doesn't  stop  me  from  envying 
them.  They  nearly  drive  me  mad  with  jealousy.  When 


STILL  LIFE  277 

I'm  feeling  chirpy,  I  say  to  myself  that  it's  because  I  can 
see  beyond  that  safely  enough,  but  I  can't  see  as  far  as  the 
next  stage.  It's  a  rotten  position  to  be  in.  .  .  ." 

"  You  don't  want  to  be  a  B.W.  Leader,  and  you  can't 
quite  manage  a  Van  Gogh — yet  ?  " 

"  That's  the  idea.  .  .  .  But  seriously — you  can't  get  over 
the  fact  that  words  mean  something.  That's  what  they're 
for.  You  can't  just  stick  them  about  and  make  a  pattern 
with  them.  They  have  always  got  to  mean  something, 
and  what's  more  they  have  to  mean  something  pretty  big. 
The  time's  past  when  you  could  put  a  middle-class  man's 
ideas  into  words  and  make  a  classic  by  putting  them  in 
beautiful  words. 

"  It'll  always  be  done  of  course,  until  the  year  before 
the  judgment  day ;  but  people  are  beginning  to  live  by 
ideas.  They  can't  be  patient  while  somebody  tickles  their 
ears  with  a  straw.  There  has  to  be  a  new  idea  now,  you 
see — some  sort  of  philosophy  of  life.  You  understand 
what  I  mean  ?  Writing  nowadays  means  representing 
living  people.  Poetry  is  always  second  rate,  now,  simply 
because  the  good  people  don't  want  to  be  delighted  any 
more,  or  they  only  want  to  be  delighted  just  as  they  want 
to  play  cricket  or  sail  boats. 

"  We've  got  past  that  idea  now.  Now  people  want  to 
be  justified,  in  their  life.  You  can't  just  kill  them  off. 
Battle,  murder  and  sudden  deaths — they're  only  accidents. 
What  you  have  to  prove  now  is  that  they  are  only  accidents. 
You  can't  burke  the  question  by  offering  them  a  share  in 
eternal  life  on  spec.  It's  not  even  entertaining  any  more. 
No,  they  want  to  be  justified  here  and  now.  I  don't  mean 
that  a  writer  has  to  justify  a  French  politician  or  your 
picture  dealer,  as  a  politician  or  a  picture  dealer.  It 
couldn't  be  done.  The  problem  is  this  :  stick  two,  three  or 
a  dozen  people  together,  watch  them,  represent  them  so  that 
everybody  must  admit  that  they  have  really  justified  their 
existence.  It's  not  so  very  simple  is  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  I've  understood.  ...  It  sounds 


278  STILL  LIFE 

to  me  rather  a  sentimental  idea.    I  believe  you've  been 
corrupted." 

"  I  believe  you — not  that  I've  been  corrupted,  but  that 
I'm  sentimental.  There  are  all  sorts  of  sentimentality. 
It  goes  on  evolving  from  kind  to  kind.  All  that  a  writer 
can  do  is  to  discover  the  kind  of  sentimentality  that  the 
next  two  hundred  years  will  live  by.  That's  all  I  have  to 
show  for  two  years  of  my  life,  since  I  was  here  last.  To- 
morrow I  shan't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"  That's  a  comfort.  ...  I  don't  want  anybody  worrying 
me  about  whether  I  justify  myself.  I'd  want  to  knock 
him  down." 

"  It's  all  right.  I'm  not  a  missionary.  .  .  .  But,  Lord,  I 
do  envy  you,  seriously  I  do." 

"  What's  the  good  ?  If  you  were  a  painter,  you'd  have 
done  two  promising  studies  from  the  life,  and  spent  the  rest 
of  the  time  worrying  if  it  was  possible  to  beat  Rembrandt 
at  his  own  game." 

Maurice  nodded,  smiling. 

"  I  couldn't.  I  have  to  be  doing  something,  sailing  a 
boat,  landing  a  fish,  or  punching  somebody  on  the  nose.  I 
paint,  because  I  can  put  nearly  all  those  things  into  it. 
And  you've  no  idea  how  a  canvas  like  that  takes  it  out  of 
me.  I  might  have  been  punching  a  whole  street  full  of 
jaws,  the  way  I  sleep  after  it. ...  But  you  look  a  bit  better 
than  you  used  to.  ...  Been  eating  plenty  of  meat  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say.  I've  been  in  the  country  for  the  last  month 
— in  Richmond's  cottage.  ..." 

"  That's  it.  ...  He's  got  a  cottage  somewhere  on  the 
South  Coast,  hasn't  he  ?  He  said  once  I  might  use  it. 
I  might  have  done  when  I  was  hard  up ;  but  so  long  as 
I've  got  any  money,  I'm  not  going  back  .  .  .  what's  he 
doing  ?  " 

"  He's  somewhere  in  Austria,  I  think.  I've  not  heard 
of  him,  but  Dennis  had  a  letter  from  some  queer  place  out 
there.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  don't  know  Beauchamp,  do  you  ?  He's 
coming  over  here  soon.  You'll  like  him." 


STILL  LIFE  279 

Ramsay  nodded  his  head  in  enquiring  assent.    "  What's 
he?" 

"  He  is,  at  least  he  was,  a  doctor.  He  used  to  lecture  at 
a  hospital.  But  he  says  he's  given  it  up  now." 

"  Old  man  ?  " 

"  No,  only  a  bit  older  than  me." 

;(  That's  young  to  be  lecturing  at  a  hospital,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    He's  very  clever." 

"  Bring  him  along.  .  .  .  Are  you  going  anywhere  to 
lunch  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  I'll  get  on  with  my  dressing  and  we'll  go 
somewhere — to  Bourdon's."  Ramsay  disappeared  behind 
a  door.  Maurice  wandered  about  the  room.  After  his 
words  he  was  in  a  fever  to  be  doing  something  of  his  own. 
The  tumult  of  his  desire  was  vague  and  without  focus,  re- 
awakened by  every  object  that  arrested  him  in  his  wander- 
ing. Everything,  the  white  table,  the  lamp  of  turquoise 
blue,  the  great  stove  with  its  black  pipe  running  straight 
like  the  mast  of  a  ship  to  the  roof  against  the  white  wall, 
had  its  order  and  its  purpose,  plainly  subdued  to  Ramsay's 
will.  They  came  to  a  fine  point  in  the  canvas  he  was  paint- 
ing and  were  dominated  by  it.  The  room  was  a  stronghold 
of  Ramsay's  personality.  Maurice  felt  that  it  was  useless 
for  him  to  believe,  as  he  had  believed  but  a  second  ago, 
that  he  could  do  something  in  a  room  like  that,  secluded  at 
will,  and  free  to  be  alone  and  to  be  himself.  The  room  was 
not  a  preliminary  but  a  result  of  victory. 

There  followed  the  tormenting  thought  that  he  was  an 
absolute  charlatan,  empty  and  futile,  against  Ramsay's  full- 
ness, and  he  felt  a  kind  of  terror  lest  he  should  be  detected 
as  unworthy.  But  chiefly  he  was  beset  by  the  feverish 
desire  himself  to  achieve,  to  maintain  himself  upon  his 
achievement  and  approach  Ramsay  as  an  equal ;  and  with 
the  desire  was  the  knowledge  that  he  could  achieve  nothing 
having  no  purpose  fixed.  It  would  be  enough,  he  thought, 
if  he  could  do  something  that  would  deceive  Ramsay.  He 


280  STILL  LIFE 

might  manage  that.  But  what  might  deceive  Ramsay 
would  not  deceive  Dennis ;  and  even  if  he  could  succeed 
against  both.  ...  He  saw  Anne  sitting  quietly  in  a  chair 
and  watching  him,  and  he  knew  that  she  would  have  seen 
into  the  very  first  workings  of  his  desire.  No,  he  would 
have  to  do  something  himself.  He  knew  that  he  could  do 
nothing  at  all. 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  smoked  nervously.  On  the  point 
of  calling  out  to  offer  Ramsay  a  cigarette  he  remembered 
that  Ramsay  had  given  up  smoking  long  ago,  because  it 
interfered  with  his  work.  It  was  atypical  achievement,  he 
thought,  and  went  on  in  his  journeying  about  the  room. 
Waking  beneath  his  physical  impatience  was  a  sense  of 
moral  futility. 

The  bell  chain  squeaked  and  the  bell  tinkled. 

44  Will  you  go  to  the  door,  Temple  ?  I'm  in  my 
bath." 

A  tall,  thin  man  walked  past  him  into  the  room.  He 
peered  through  his  glasses  with  more  indifference  than 
curiosity,  and  the  slight  stoop  of  his  long  body  strengthened 
the  impression  of  indifference. 

"  Bill  in  ?  "  he  said  to  Maurice. 

"  Bathing."  Maurice  spoke  to  give  the  effect  of  easy 
intimacy. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  called  Ramsay. 

"  Only  A.  S.,"  the  tall  man  replied. 

"  Shan't  be  a  minute.  You  know  Wauchope,  don't  you, 
Temple  ?  "  he  called.  Wauchope  and  Maurice  shook 
hands.  Maurice  knew  the  name  well  for  that  of  a  painter 
friend  of  Ramsay's  of  whom  Ramsay  had  a  high  opinion. 
He  was  very  clever.  Maurice  was  uneasy  at  his  reputation 
and  his  appearance  and  he  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  while  Wauchope  stepped  forward  with  his  hat  held 
lightly  in  his  hands,  and  looked  at  the  large  half-finished 
picture.  He  drew  himself  back  with  a  jerk  after  his 
scrutiny  and  turned  to  Maurice.  "  What  do  you  think  of 
that  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  281 

Instantly  Maurice  decided  for  complete  honesty.  "  I 
don't  understand  it." 

"  Huh."  Wauchope's  short  little  laugh  might  have  been 
amusement  or  contempt.  Maurice  wondered  whether  he 
laughed  at  the  picture  or  at  himself. 

"  I've  heard  of  you,  haven't  I,  from  Miss  Etheredge  ? 
Had  a  grande  passion  here  two  years  ago,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Something  of  the  kind."  Maurice  laughed  not  with 
conviction,  but  to  save  himself. 

"  What  are  you  doing  now  ?  " 

"  Having  a  holiday." 

"  No,  what  are  you  having  a  holiday  from  ?  " 

"  Myself."  Maurice  had  realised  suddenly  that  he  would 
have  to  fight  against  Wauchope.  He  gained  a  cheap 
breathing  space,  and  the  time  to  congratulate  himself  that 
it  wasn't  so  cheap  after  all. 

"  That's  sensible  if  you  can  bring  it  off.  But  what  does 
yourself  do  when  it's  not  en  vacances  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  Something  else  tries  to  write  a  little,  and 
earns  a  little  money  by  it." 

"  Huh.  .  .  .  Are  there  as  many  people  who  write  a  little 
as  there  are  people  who  paint  a  little  ?  " 

"  Quite,  I  imagine ;  but  just  about  the  same  number 
who  make  a  little  money  by  it." 

"  What  do  you  write  about  ?  " 

"  Books  mainly,  all  kinds  of  books." 

"  Met  any  good  ones  lately  ?  " 

"  Not  one." 

"  Huh  !  .  .  ." 

Again  Maurice  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  meant  in 
disparagement  of  the  books  or  himself,  and  was  silent. 

"  What  are  your  ideas  about  writing  ?  .  .  .  .  But,  of 
course,  you've  let  off  all  your  theories  to  him,  already." 
Wauchope  nodded  to  Ramsay's  room. 

"  All  of  'em,  I  couldn't  do  it  again." 

"  You  have  'em  at  all  events." 

**  Sometimes." 


282  STILL  LIFE 

Maurice  felt  that  he  had  held  his  own  enough  to  be 
able  to  inspect  Wauchope.  He  looked  at  him  steadily. 
Wauchope  seemed  to  be  looking  through  him  at  a  drawing 
which  hung  on  the  wall,  and  then  Maurice  saw  a  faint  light 
in  his  grey  eyes  and  a  little  movement  on  his  lips,  and  felt 
that  Wauchope  was  laughing  at  him.  He  thought  back  to 
find  where  he  had  given  himself  away  by  his  words,  and 
found  no  place.  But  he  could  not  leave  things  as  they 
were ;  nor  could  he  do  or  say  anything  definite  lest  he 
should  give  Wauchope  yet  another  hold  upon  him. 

"  Have  you  seen  Miss  Etheredge  lately  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No  !  "  Wauchope  smiled.  "  We're  rather  given  to 
avoiding  each  other,  as  a  matter  of  fact." 

"  I  didn't  think  Miss  Etheredge  ever  troubled  very  much 
about  avoiding  people.  She  always  seemed  rather  to  seek 
them  out  the  moment  she  thought  they  were  avoiding  her. 
. . .  But,  of  course,  I  don't  know  very  much  about  her. ..." 

"  Evidently  not ...  or  you  wouldn't  confide  your  affec- 
tions in  her  quite  so  much." 

"  Did  I  tell  her  so  much  then  ?  " 

"  Quite  enough  for  her  to  make  a  very  pathetic  story 
about  it — and  very  interesting." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  there's  very  much  harm  done." 

"  It's  for  you  to  say,  anyhow." 

Maurice  was  weary  of  the  effort  to  put  up  a  defence 
against  Wauchope.  He  felt  that  even  the  attempted 
defence  gave  him  the  more  completely  away,  and  he  was 
frightened  of  the  man's  strange  uncaused  hostility.  He 
desired  to  placate  him,  and  in  the  pause  offered  him  a 
cigarette.  Wauchope  took  it.  Maurice  was  assiduous  in 
lighting  it  for  him,  and  waited  what  he  would  say. 

Fascinated,  Maurice  watched  him  as  he  stood.  He  was 
holding  his  right  arm  across  his  body,  his  hat  dangling 
from  his  hand.  In  the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  he  held  the 
cigarette  against  his  lips.  His  elbow  rested  upon  his  right 
arm.  The  attitude  was  artificial,  yet  it  was  not  a  pose. 
Kather,  thought  Maurice,  it  was  to  deceive  his  company 


STILL  LIFE  283 

into'taking  him  at  the  obvious  value  of  his  attitude.  One 
impression,  however,  was  for  Maurice  so  unusual,  that  it 
dominated  all.  He  was  sure  that  Wauchope  was  a  man  to 
fascinate  and  frighten  women  ;  and  he  uneasily  suspected 
that  he  himself  in  Wauchope's  presence  was  like  a  woman. 

Wauchope  swept  his  arm  about  the  room.  "  He's  an 
amazing  man,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Bill !  "  Wauchope  called  in  a  low  voice  that  carried  far. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  answered  Ramsay. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Temple  thinks  you  are  an  amazing  man.  .  .  . 
Quite  emphatic  about  it." 

"  That's  all  right  then,"  Ramsay  appeared  with  tousled 
hair,  leisurely  dragging  on  a  waistcoat.  "  Did  you  come 
round  for  anything  in  particular,  A.  S.  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I'd  see  if  you're  coming  to  lunch." 

"  I  was  just  talking  about  that  to  Temple  there.  We 
thought  of  going  to  Bourdon's.  Is  that  all  right  for  you  ?  " 

"  Quite."  Wauchope  flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigarette 
on  to  the  floor,  as  one  in  need  of  a  gesture. 

"  There  was  something  else,  though.  ...  I  think  I'm 
going  to  clear  out  of  this  place.  .  . ." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  ...  Curious  kind  of  time  to  choose  though. 
It's  just  begun  to  be  tolerable  again." 

"  Spring,  you  mean.  .  .  .  Yes,  there's  that.  But  it's  not 
the  place,  it's  the  people.  I'm  sick  to  death  of  having 
second-hand  ideas  rammed  down  my  throat  by  some  fifth- 
rate  idiot  every  time  I  go  out  to  have  a  drink  at  night-time. 
If  I  can't  have  any  intelligent  company  I'll  have  none  at 
aD." 

"  Why  should  you  ?  You  can  have  your  drink  by  your- 
self  But  is  it  as  bad  as  all  that  ?  " 

"I'm  damned  if  I  can  see  why  it  doesn't  upset  you.  You 
seem  to  revel  in  it.  .  .  ." 

Ramsay  laughed.    "  I  do.    I  enjoy  it." 

"  You  never  seem  to  think  a  man's  a  fool  until  he  earns 
his  living  by  being  one.  Or  do  you  never  make  up  your 


284  STILL  LIFE 

mind  about  anybody  ?  .  .  .  But  I  can't  drink  by  myself  if 
I'm  stuck  in  Paris.  I  get  mad  with  loneliness  when  I 
think  of  everybody  else  drinking  and  talking  and  I'm  not 
there.  No,  I'll  have  to  take  some  woman  and  go  and 
live  in  the  country,  where  I  simply  can't  find  anybody  at 
night." 

"  It  sounds  all  right — but  God  pity  the  woman." 

"  What  d'you  mean  ?  "  Wauchope  looked  as  though  he 
had  been  discovered  in  murder ;  Ramsay  laughed  as  he 
answered,  brushing  his  smooth  hair  deliberately  before  the 
glass. 

"  Damn  it  all.  What  do  you  expect  ?  Stick  a  woman 
in  the  country,  miles  away  from  anywhere,  with  you  when 
you  suddenly  want  to  drink  and  talk  to  somebody — well, 
it's  not  going  to  be  a  bergerie  exactly,  is  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Wauchope.  "  That's  true.  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  give  up  the  idea  of  the  woman." 

"Why?  Some  of  them  like  it."  Ramsay  finally 
smoothed  the  hair  down  on  to  the  bronzed  nape  of  his  neck. 
'  You  might  manage  a  baby.  Live  in  the  open  with  plenty 
of  air  and  plenty  to  eat,  and  you  couldn't  help  it.  Intel- 
lectual painter,  simple  wife,  bouncing  baby — it  ought  to  be 
easy  enough  to  work.  Anyhow,  it  sounds  quite  the  thing, 
don't  it,  Temple  ?  " 

Something  about  Wauchope  made  him  answer  as  though 
he  had  not  been  really  attending  to  the  conversation. 

"  What  ?  .  .  .  Yes.  ...  I  suppose  it  does." 

"  But  you've  really  made  up  your  mind  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  thinking  of  going  to-morrow.  I  really 
wanted  to  see  if  you  knew  of  a  good  place." 

"  What  sort  of  thing  do  you  want — a  cottage  or  rooms 
in  an  auberge  ?  .  .  .  There's  a  place  down  by  the  Pyrenees 
where  we  went  the  year  before  last,  where  they've  got  two 
good  rooms  in  the  auberge,  one  quite  good  enough  to  paint 
in.  I  did  a  good  deal  there.  Would  that  be  any  good  ?  " 

"  Give  me  the  address  and  I'll  wire." 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  studio  ?    You 


STILL  LIFE  285 

have  a  woman  to  look  after  you.  Are  you  going  to  take 
her  with  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  difference  does  that  make  ?  I've  left  her 
here  before  now." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  if  you 
cared  to  let  it,  Temple  might  take  it  for  a  bit.  Better  than 
letting  it  lie  empty.  Besides,  it's  more  a  flat  than  a  studio." 

"  But  he  could  do  it  cheaper  in  a  hotel.  I'd  expect  him 
to  pay  rent.  He  could  board  and  lodge  himself  for  that  in 
the  Lille — quite  well,  too." 

"  But  he's  got  a  wife,  you  see — and  a  friend  of  his  is 
coming  to  stay  with  him  for  a  bit.  I  thought  it  might  be  a 
good  notion."  Ramsay  finished  his  brushing,  put  on  his 
coat,  and  went  to  rummage  for  his  hat. 

"  You're  married,  are  you  then  ?  "  Wauchope  turned 
to  Maurice  and  whistled.  "  That's  another  story.  .  .  . 
You'll  have  some  fun  when  you  tell  Miss  Etheredge  that." 

"  Well,  she  won't  have  to  wait  long.  I'm  seeing  her  this 
afternoon." 

"  You  know  where  she  lives  then  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  meeting  her  here  at  tea." 

"  Are  you  though  ?  "  Wauchope  called  to  Ramsay. 
"  Bill,  may  I  come  to  tea  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  But  won't  you  be  busy  getting  ready  for 
this  holiday  of  yours  ?  " 

'l  Trying  to  put  me  off  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.    Only  Etheredge  is  coming." 

;'  That's  just  the  reason  why  I  want  to.  She'll  be  begin- 
ning to  think  I'm  avoiding  her." 

"  Aren't  you,  then  ?  " 

"  It  all  depends  what  you  mean.  I  don't  like  her  to 
interfere  with  me,  but  I  haven't  any  objection  to  interfering 
with  her." 

"  So  that's  it.  But  she  may  be  angry  with  me  for  not 
having  told  her.  I'd  better  send  her  word.  I  don't  want 
a  row  here.  And  it's  quite  a  party.  Mrs.  Temple  is  coming, 
too." 


286  STILL  LIFE 

"  Don't  send.  I'll  not  come  to  tea.  But  I  don't  promise 
not  to  drop  in  afterwards.  I'd  like  to  see  the  merry  gather- 
ing." Wauchope  glanced  at  Maurice.  Kamsay  led  the 
way  to  the  door.  Wauchope  motioned  with  his  hand  that 
Maurice  should  precede  him.  Irresolutely  Maurice  did 
the  same.  After  a  fraction  of  a  second  he  blushed,  and 
from  his  hesitation  hurried  out  in  front  of  Wauchope.  He 
seemed  to  hear  the  smile  of  amusement  at  his  discomfiture. 

During  lunch  they  talked  but  little.  Maurice  strove  to 
avoid  making  any  remarks  of  which  Wauchope  might  take 
hold,  but  listened  with  an  assumed  interest  to  the  other 
two,  who  spasmodically  discussed  the  auberge  at  Villemain 
St.  Marie,  and  the  immediate  decadence  of  any  salon 
which  had  ever  been  or  would  ever  be  opened  for  painters 
who  were  beyond  the  pale  of  Academies.  Ramsay  went 
off  the  moment  lunch  was  finished.  He  had  business,  he 
explained,  on  the  other  side  and  invited  Maurice  to  share 
his  cab.  Wauchope  saluted  with  an  intense  courtesy  when 
Maurice  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER  II 

MEANWHILE,  during  the  morning,  Anne  had  been  reading 
quietly  on  the  balcony,  more  often  glancing  down  into  the 
street  than  at  her  book.  At  lunch  she  was  surprised  by  a 
second  telegram  from  Dennis  announcing  that  he  would 
arrive  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  at  half-past  three  that  after- 
noon. She  read  the  telegram  bemusedly  many  times  as 
she  meandered  through  lunch,  and  dimly  decided  that  she 
would  go  to  meet  him.  There  was  plenty  of  time  to  walk. 
She  had  but  little  to  do  in  the  way  of  dressing,  but  it  took 
her  half  an  hour ;  so  contentedly  dreamy  was  she.  Con- 
tact with  the  bureau  at  her  enquiry  as  to  which  was  the 
best,  not  the  quickest  but  the  best,  way  to  get  to  the 
station,  awakened  her.  By  the  time  she  had  stepped  on  to 
the  pavement  she  was  alert  to  everything.  A  fleeting 
thought  that  she  had  done  something  ridiculous  in  her 
dressing  nearly  drove  her  back  to  the  hotel,  but  she  so 
soon  succumbed  to  the  feeling  that  it  was  quite  unim- 
portant that  she  hardly  checked  her  steps. 

She  regulated  her  pace  carefully,  after  she  had  crossed 
the  Place  de  I'Op^ra  ;  she  chose  a  decision  in  her  steps  in 
order  to  avoid  importunities  ;  she  went  slowly  because  she 
desired  above  all  things  to  forget  that  she  was  going  any- 
where. Her  eyes  turned  delightedly  from  people  to  shops. 
The  delight  of  seeing  was  so  vivid  that  she  forgot  to  be  im- 
pressed by  the  objects  she  saw.  Gradually  a  staring  poster 
asserted  itself,  claiming  by  its  violent  metallic  red  to  be 
comprehended  as  well  as  seen.  She  paused  naturally  in 
front  of  it,  long  enough  to  read,  "IS Amour,  revue  en 
dix-neuf  scenes"  and  to  see  that  the  authors  and  the  artistes 
were  duly  recorded  upon  the  bill  in  their  appropriate  place. 

287 


288  STILL  LIFE 

She  walked  on,  saying  mechanically  to  herself,  "  L' Amour, 
revue  en  dix-neuf  scenes."  It  would  have  contented  her 
until  she  had  been  forced  to  stop  before  another  announce- 
ment and  forced  to  learn  another  tag,  had  not  her  tongue 
tripped  into  another  phrase,  in  spite  of  herself.  She  began 
to  say,  "  L'amour  revu  et  corrige  .  .  .  Apres  Poriginal  .  .  . 
par  .  .  .  par  Anne  Cradock."  The  hesitation  she  had  in 
rilling  out  the  phrase  brought  it  completely  into  her  con- 
sciousness. She  smiled  at  the  conceit,  and  her  smiling 
seemed  to  ripple  joyfully  through  her  whole  body.  She 
glanced  up  at  the  sky,  and  came  near  to  laughing  at  three 
or  four  hard  and  woolly  white  clouds  that  trundled  like 
white-tailed  rabbits  along  before  the  wind. 

She  walked  on  deliberate  and  happy.  A  sign  hanging 
in  front  of  her  :  "  Concerts  Bleu  :  a  trois  heures  de  Vapres- 
midi,"  held  her  attention.  She  went  towards  it.  A  young 
man  selling  flowers  offered  her  a  red  rose  :  she  walked  past 
him,  happier  than  ever  in  the  thought  that  roses  were 
already  in  bloom,  and  she  was  reading  the  concert  pro- 
gramme at  the  door,  before  she  remembered  that  the  roses 
had  probably  come  from  the  South  or  from  a  big  hot-house. 
She  detested  hot-houses.  They  always  reminded  her  of 
the  orchids  at  Kew  that  always  looked  more  animal  than 
flower  and  gave  her  a  queer  feeling  of  horror.  She  started 
suddenly.  A  red  rose  had  been  pushed  between  her  eyes 
and  the  concert  bill.  She  followed  the  hand  that  held  it, 
until  her  glance  fell  upon  the  youth  who  had  offered  her 
roses  a  moment  ago.  He  was  very  offhand  in  his  manner. 

"  Non,  merci,"  she  said  automatically. 

"  Mais  madame  .  .  .  Prenez-la,  s'il  vous  plait.  ..." 

"  Merci,  je  n'en  veux  pas." 

"  Mais  madame  . .  .  je  vous  la  donne. ..."  In  spite  of  his 
offhandedness  he  had  begun  to  colour.  In  response  to  this 
rather  than  to  his  words  Anne  took  the  bud  in  her  fingers. 
She  was  confused  by  the  abruptness  of  the  gift,  and  while 
she  hesitated,  holding  the  flower  helplessly,  she  saw  the 
young  man  lift  his  peaked  cap.  His  hair  was  jet  black. 


STILL  LIFE  289 

clinging  to  his  forehead  in  little  streaks.  The  assurance  of 
his  twinkling  little  eyes  hardly  fitted  with  the  rings  of 
colour  in  his  sallow  cheeks. 

"...  Vous  etes  si  belle,  madame." 

She  hurried  through  the  swing-door  into  the  lobby  of  the 
concert-room.  While  she  hastily  fumbled  with  her  purse 
to  find  the  five  francs  which  the  clerk  at  the  controle,  taking 
advantage  of  her  irresolution,  suavely  demanded  from  her, 
she  pricked  her  finger.  A  little  pin  had  been  stuck  through 
the  stem  of  the  rose.  She  gathered  up  her  ticket  and 
pinned  the  bud  into  her  coat. 

She  sat  down  and  leaned  back.  A  wave  of  physical 
sensation  rose  and  passed  through  and  about  her  body 
like  a  warm  cloud,  gathering  itself  from  diffusion  at  her 
breasts,  leaving  them  kindled  and  glowing,  ascending  to 
her  face  and  steeping  it  as  in  intoxicating  incense.  From 
the  piano  came  miniature  cascades  of  sound,  oddly  fan- 
tastic, a  procession  of  clumsy  ridiculous  toys,  of  all  toys  of 
which  a  child  has  ever  been  really  fond,  woodenly  galloping 
horses,  stiffly  yodling  men,  the  grave  and  definite  tread  of 
inflexible  elephants.  Pair  by  pair  they  came,  conscious 
of  their  high  and  sacred  mission,  noisily  themselves,  out  of 
the  eternal  Ark.  Never  was  music  with  a  vision  more  fixed 
or  more  inevitable.  The  endless  procession  prolonged  into 
following  pairs  of  living  men  and  women  fixed  into  darling 
toys  for  some  pre-eminent  child.  The  flower-boy  was  there, 
lifting  his  peaked  cap  with  a  rigid  arm,  incessantly,  holding 
his  roses  as  thanking  the  world  for  the  bouquet  given  to 
him  as  he  passed  across  the  stage.  With  him  went  a 
doll  woman,  with  spots  of  vivid  red  on  her  cheeks,  and  hair 
blacker  even  than  his  own  cut  in  a  deep  square  fringe  like 
a  geisha's  ;  but  she  wore  a  black  wooden  coat  with  a 
painted  red  flower,  and  stared  immovably  in  front  of  her. 

The  piano  stopped.  The  clapping  of  hands  made  equal 
accompaniment  to  the  procession  that  went  on  forming 
and  passing  before  her.  The  fat  man  whom  they  had  seen 
in  a  grey  dust-coat  and  small-brimmed  panama  hat,  wind- 


290  STILL  LIFE 

ing  his  motor-car  in  the  station  yard  at  Boulogne,  marched 
corpulently  before  his  little  car  with  the  woman,  her  grey 
hair  swathed  in  a  black  shawl,  who  had  wheeled  radiant 
oranges  in  a  perambulator  beside  the  train.  Jim  followed. 
His  bigness  made  mock  of  his  serious  face.  The  mocking 
became  sheer  absurdity  when  suddenly  his  head  screwed 
sharply  right  round  and  faced  backwards,  towards  Maurice, 
whose  nodding  head  swung  steadily  up  and  down,  crowned 
by  a  shock  of  brown  hair.  Maurice  was  holding  her  hand, 
and  she  was  for  all  the  world  the  very  woman  who  had 
walked  out  of  the  hotel  that  afternoon,  stifTer  perhaps  in 
her  pearl-grey  coat  and  curling  blue  collar,  but  the  more 
charming,  only  ridiculously  small.  She  seemed  to  be 
shepherding  the  flock,  for  her  vision  would  not  go  beyond. 
Into  her  head  came  the  phrase  she  had  learnt  outside. 
"  L'amour,  revu  et  corrige  par  Anne  Cradock."  She 
was  curiously  anxious  to  know  whether  that  was  the  whole 
of  her  that  had  passed  processionally  before  her  eyes, 
closed  to  isolate  the  scene.  She  opened  them.  Two  rows 
in  front  a  man  with  fair  hair  and  heavy  eyelids  that  dropped 
down  by  their  own  sheer  weight  half-way  over  his  eyes 
leant  easily  over  the  back  of  his  chair  to  regard  her.  She 
was  conscious  of  the  warmth  of  the  blood  in  her  body,  and 
the  man  seemed  to  have  detected  it.  She  looked  steadily 
beyond  him,  too,  where  the  pianist  was  making  ready  for 
another  solo. 

As  the  music  began  the  fair-haired  man  lazily  shifted 
back  to  face  the  piano,  leaving  his  arm  hanging  loosely 
over  the  chair.  Anne  saw  this  though  her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  player.  What  he  played  was  instantly  familiar, 
Debussy's  "  Jardin  sous  la  Pluie,"  and  she  anticipated  her 
delight.  But  the  presence  of  the  fair-haired  man  in  front 
of  her  determined  her  to  control  herself.  She  thought  the 
music  was  wonderfully  true  to  Paris  as  it  had  been  to  her 
of  flat  e,  but  her  instant  joy  in  its  perfect  fitness  quickly 
faded.  It  was  as  though  at  a  certain  note  in  the  music  her 
heart  had  actually  dropped,  an  infinitely  little  distance, 


STILL  LIFE  291 

but  through  empty  space.  The  Paris  she  had  felt  of  late 
had  been  clear  and  beautiful,  she  thought,  but  now  it 
seemed  also  to  have  been  cold  and  apart  from  her.  She 
had  missed  the  warm  outward  radiance  of  herself  into  the 
world,  of  which  the  music's  summer  rain  had  waked  her 
into  awareness.  It  had  been  a  wonderful  spectacle,  more 
wonderful  because  she  had  not  known  that  it  had  been  only 
a  spectacle. 

For  a  moment  the  contrast  between  the  disappointment 
of  her  discovery  and  the  joyful  knowledge  of  the  warmth 
and  beauty  of  her  own  body  made  her  so  sad  that  she 
could  have  bent  forward  and  wept  great  tears,  like  the 
intimate  tears  of  a  child.  But  the  warm,  wet  notes  poured 
about  the  hall,  comforting  her,  although  she  knew  that 
they  would  have  comforted  her  yet  more  had  she  lost  herself 
enough  to  cry.  But  they  glanced  before  her  eyes  like  golden 
sunlight  on  shower-wet  leaves,  and  echoed  in  her  ears  like 
tinkling  crystals.  The  sound  of  the  music  had  begun  to 
caress  her  before  the  misery  of  her  thought  could  wholly  chill 
the  glow  which  had  been  kindled  by  the  young  man's  rose. 

When  it  ended,  and  the  fair-haired  man  swung  back 
again  to  regard  her,  she  smiled  at  him  in  an  irony  of  con- 
descending pity,  for  she  felt  she  had  suddenly  grown  old. 
Realising  with  an  unpleasant  start  that  it  was  much  better 
not  to  smile  at  him,  however  deep  might  be  her  irony  and 
her  pity,  she  looked  steadily  beyond  him  again  to  the  piano 
on  the  platform.  She  quickly  woke  to  a  matter-of-fact 
mood,  and  waited  only  for  the  music  to  begin  and  the  man 
to  turn  round  again  so  that  she  could  leave  the  concert- 
room  untroubled.  In  this  mood  she  waited  impatiently, 
and  while  she  waited  she  tried  to  dismiss  her  desire  for 
tears  and  her  melancholy  awakening  as  sentimentalities. 
"  As  though  it  were  the  first  time  it's  happened  in  a 
concert-room,"  she  thought,  as  the  music  began  and  the 
fair-haired  man  slowly  faced  the  piano. 

She  made  her  way  out  quickly,  but  her  sternness  with 
herself  did  not  prevent  her  from  being  embarrassed  at 


292  STILL  LIFE 

passing  the  young  man  with  the  roses  again.  Beginning 
to  walk  hurriedly  with  an  assumption  of  pressing  purpose, 
she  was  checked  by  the  feeling  that  it  would  be  ungracious 
to  ignore  him.  She  hesitated  in  the  lobby,  and  then 
walked  out  slowly,  utterly  undecided  what  to  do.  While 
she  pretended  to  be  busy  with  her  veil  before  the  long 
mirror,  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  would  pay  him  for  the 
rose  if  she  saw  him.  But  then  he  would  refuse,  and  that 
might  be  terrible.  Anyhow,  she  could  not  offer  him  money 
— it  was  impossible.  She  turned  round  suddenly  to  sur- 
prise herself  into  action,  and  caught  sight  of  him  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  She  seized  the  moment,  and 
hurried  away,  involuntarily  turning  back  the  way  she  had 
come.  "  I'm  going  away  from  the  station."  She  stopped 
short  in  a  kind  of  despair.  Looking  about  her  she  saw  a 
clock.  Twenty-five  minutes  to  four.  Of  course ;  the  concert 
only  started  at  three.  The  most  sensible  thing  she  could 
do  was  to  hurry  back  to  the  hotel ;  and  she  kept  on  her 
way. 

Nor  did  her  denunciation  of  her  own  sentimentality 
suffice  to  reinstate  the  mood  in  which  she  had  approached 
the  concert.  She  could  not  help  noticing,  though  she 
walked  straight  on  and  looked  in  front  of  her,  the  obstinate 
reality  of  a  succession  of  short  men,  rather  stout,  with 
luxuriant  beards  and  black  portfolios,  supported  by  fat 
hands.  They  would  have  depressed  her  had  she  not  been 
constantly  alert  for  the  red  poster.  She  passed  by  it 
quickly,  for  it  seemed  commonplace  and  sordid  now.  The 
memory  of  the  music  abode  with  her,  and  became  a  standard 
of  criticism  as  she  went  along.  She  was  disappointed  with 
herself  for  having  allowed  the  place  to  impose  on  her,  but 
her  disappointment  did  not  make  her  so  much  unhappy  as 
consciously  superior  to  her  surroundings,  too  individually 
herself  to  be  cozened  into  responding  instinctively  to  them. 
Not  only  was  this  rather  contemptuous  detachment  uncom- 
fortable and  depressing  to  her,  but  she  knew  that  it  was 
wrong. 


STILL  LIFE  293 

Something,  somewhere,  had  been  wrong  in  her  since  she 
came  away  from  England.  She  had  been  indulging  an 
appetite  of  weakness  that  she  had  discovered  in  Maurice, 
carefully  administering  an  opiate.  What  if  he  woke  out  of 
his  dreams  too  ?  She  did  not  want  to  think  of  it.  She  had 
certainly  done  wrong,  and  the  idea  she  took  of  the  wrong 
she  had  done  him  was  that  she  had  not  loved  him  enough. 
The  alternative  was  plain.  She  must  love  him  more.  Some 
instinct  warned  her  of  the  impossibility  before  she  formed 
for  herself  the  reply  that  he  did  not  want  to  be  loved  any 
more.  She  felt  the  more  keenly  that  she  desired  to  love 
him  more,  and  that  he  refused  it.  By  his  refusal  he  re- 
pressed her  and  made  her  conscious  of  the  conflict  between 
herself  and  the  world.  She  was  none  too  sure  of  her  con- 
clusion about  Maurice,  though  she  was  certain  of  her  own 
feeling  about  herself,  and  she  was  dimly  oppressed  by  the 
foreboding  that  she  did  not  know  how  to  love  him.  Though 
she  did  her  utmost  to  assure  herself  that  it  would  be  quite 
different  on  the  morrow,  she  was  disillusioned  and  critical 
as  she  entered  the  hotel. 

She  went  to  her  bedroom  first.  She  did  not  want  to 
meet  Dennis  and  Maurice  immediately.  Their  voices 
sounded  dully  as  she  quietly  opened  her  door.  Inside  she 
stood  by  the  pier-glass  idly  tidying  her  dress.  The  voices 
sounded  yet  more  plainly.  Maurice's  had  an  unexpectedly 
high  pitch,  and  was  more  boldly  borne  into  the  room.  He 
was  excited  about  something. 

Not  for  many  months,  perhaps  years,  had  she  been  so 
reluctant  to  enter  a  company.  She  was  perplexed  about 
her  own  attitude,  what  she  should  say,  how  she  should 
bear  herself  when  she  went  through  the  door.  Nothing 
in  the  situation,  in  Maurice  or  Dennis,  suggested  any 
problem  of  her  behaviour  that  might  worry  her  :  but  the 
hesitation  had  come  once  instinctively,  and  afterwards  she 
could  not  but  be  conscious  of  herself.  Her  insecurity  was 
apparent  to  herself,  at  least  in  her  greeting  to  Dennis  when 
she  opened  the  door  of  the  sitting-room.  She  was  by  a 


294  STILL  LIFE 

fraction  too  ready  with  her  outstretched  hand,  and  she 
thought  that  she  herself  could  have  detected  an  effusive- 
ness in  her  manner,  and  the  faint  indication  of  an  attitude 
as  she  slowly  closed  the  door.  Fully  in  the  presence  of  them 
both,  she  at  once  forgot  her  hesitations,  and  she  waited,  as 
she  liked  to  wait,  for  Dennis  to  speak. 

"  I  had  to  come.  I  was  sick  to  death  of  the  place  and 
the  job." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  didn't  wait  to  finish  the  job  first  ? . . . 
A  Monday  afternoon  arrival  is  rather  suspicious." 

"  We  did  the  same  ourselves,  after  all,"  said  Maurice. 

"  Yes,  I  finished  the  job.  You're  right.  I  do  wish  you 
wouldn't  deprive  me  of  every  shred  of  impulse,  though." 

"  I  don't  think  I  do.  I  just  take  hold  of  your  coat  to 
see  what's  underneath ;  and  before  I  can  let  go,  you're 
off  with  your  coat  and  have  flung  it  on  top  of  me. . . .  That's 
nearer  the  truth  at  any  rate.  I'm  sure  I'm  no  enemy  to 
romantic  impulse.  .  .  .  Morry  can  bear  me  witness.  .  .  . 
What  of  the  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece  ?  " 

Maurice  laughed  rather  uncomfortably. 

"  What  were  you  talking  about  just  now  ?  I  heard  your 
voice  in  the  other  room.  You  were  very  excited  about 
something." 

"  I  believe  you  were  listening."    He  was  nearly  serious. 

"  Morry  !  "  she  expostulated. 

"  But  where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  I  went  out  with  the  idea  of  meeting  Dennis.  He  sent 
a  second  telegram  at  lunch.  But  the  idea  got  lost  in  a 
concert-room.  I've  only  just  escaped."  She  recited  her 
doings  in  monotone.  "  Now,  Dennis,  you  tell  me  what 
he's  been  talking  about." 

"  I  was  only  giving  him  some  idea  of  a  book  I  wanted  to 
write."  Maurice  hastily  volunteered  the  information. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Anne. 

".Well,  I  rather  felt  I  wanted  to  be  doing  something," 
apologised  Maurice.  Anne  glanced  from  him  to  Dennis, 
smiling. 


STILL  LIFE  295 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  watered  it  down  a  bit,"  Dennis  said. 

<:  I'm  afraid  so,  too.  He  could  have  whispered  that.  .  .  . 
How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  here  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.  As  long  as  I  like.  I  really  have  given 
up  the  hospital.  Would  you  like  it  in  black  and  white  ?  " 
He  hunted  in  his  pocket-book,  and  handed  her  an  official 
letter  accepting  his  resignation.  It  was  extremely  eulogistic 
and  regretful. 

"  So  you've  really  done  it  ?  " 

"  Apparently." 

Maurice  reached  for  the  letter  and  read  it  inattentively. 
He  was  fingering  it  still  when  he  said  : 

"  I  suppose  I  was  rather  enthusiastic,  wasn't  I,  Dennis  ? 
Being  in  Ramsay's  studio  this  morning  made  me  feel  a  bit 
of  a  worm.  I  felt  it  was  about  time  I  began  to  do  some- 
thing. There  was  something  about  a  book,  but  that  was 
only  ideas — rottenly  vague.  ...  I  felt  I  hadn't  anything  to 
put  up  against  Ramsay.  That's  all." 

"  Get  rid  of  the  women  and  begin  the  masterpiece,"  said 
Anne,  smiling. 

Maurice  reddened,  and  collected  himself.  "  I  mustn't 
be  made  fun  of,"  he  said. 

"  But  I  was  perfectly  serious." 

He  looked  at  Anne,  wondering  and  anxious.  Though 
she  was  smiling,  he  thought  he  could  discover  some  trace 
of  seriousness  in  her.  His  laugh  was  a  half-hearted  solution 
of  his  difficulty. 

"  But  hadn't  we  better  be  getting  ready  to  go  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  want  me  to  come  ?  "  Anne  asked. 

"  Oh,  Anne  .  .  .  it's  been  arranged  for  days  .  .  .  you  know 
it  has." 

"  But  you  only  told  Mr.  Ramsay  to-day." 

"  Well,  that  doesn't  make  any  difference,  does  it  ?  " 

"  What  about  me  ?  "  asked  Dennis. 

"  You're  arranged,  too."  He  was  in  a  petty  despair  at 
petty  vexations.  "  We'll  start  in  ten  minutes,  and  let's 
have  a  cab." 


CHAPTER  III 

DURING  his  sudden  journey  to  Paris,  Dennis  had  not  felt 
all  the  confidence  of  an  impulse.  Although  the  morning 
of  his  departure  had  been  quick  and  sunny,  he  had  been 
uneasy,  as  a  man's  skin  is  uneasy  when  ruffled  by  an  east 
wind.  A  thin,  precarious  line  divided  him  from  a  senti- 
mental despondency  which  crystallised  in  the  worrying 
question  why  he  had  resigned  his  position.  He  did  not  so 
much  regret  the  loss  of  it  as  feel  unanchored  and  at  drift 
without  it.  It  needed  but  very  little  to  set  him  revolving 
this  thought  incessantly,  and  he  was  dubious  of  his  own 
ability  to  hold  out  against  it  when  he  reached  the  hotel. 
But  Maurice  had  anticipated  him  with  a  despondency  of 
his  own.  He  had  poured  self-accusation  for  the  past  and 
ideas  for  the  future  into  his  ears,  and  had  been  so  plainly 
agitated  by  his  insufficiency  that  the  contact  stiffened 
Dennis.  He  was  silently  critical  of  Maurice's  attitude  and 
ideas,  and  a  hard  centre  of  insensibility,  if  not  of  antag- 
onism, seemed  to  form  inside  him,  which  was  a  kind  of 
ballast  for  his  unanchored  thoughts.  When  Anne  entered 
he  had  been  solidly  confident  of  the  Tightness  of  his  resigna- 
tion, and  impermeable  to  criticism.  For  the  first  time  he 
could  think  "  that's  done,"  and  put  it  definitely  behind 
him.  But  he  had  noticed  something  unfamiliar  in  Anne, 
as  she  had  entered.  It  had  diminished  from  his  confidence. 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  is  Ramsay  ?  "  he  asked  with 
indifference  of  Maurice  in  the  cab. 

Maurice  broke  into  hyperbolic  praise  of  Ramsay's  com- 
pleteness. Dennis  was  proof  against  the  contagion  of 
enthusiasm.  To  him  it  savoured  more  of  self-condemna- 
tion. He  said  as  much  to  Maurice. 

296 


STILL  LIFE  297 

"  You're  not  talking  about  Ramsay.     You're  talking 

about  yourself."     Maurice  was  puzzled.     He  looked  to 

Anne  for  enlightenment.    She  was  engaged  at  the  window. 

"  How  terribly  raw  a  new  street  in  Paris  does  look,"  she 

said. 

"  They  take  long  enough  about  it,  too.  This  was  just 
the  same  two  years  ago."  Maurice  went  on  explaining 
Ramsay  to  Dennis. 

Ramsay's  greeting  to  Maurice  had  its  invariable  quality. 
It  seemed  indefinably  to  expand  and  include  Anne  and 
Dennis.  Miss  Etheredge  was  sitting  on  the  sofa,  splendidly 
large,  leaning  back  negligently,  her  arms  stretched  out  to 
make  one  lazily  sweeping,  but  not  unconscious  curve  with 
her  delicately  massive  shoulders.  The  indifference  which 
she  so  palpably  assumed  was  heightened  by  the  languid 
motion  with  which  she  put  her  cigarette  to  her  lips.  Then 
her  fine,  clear  upper  lip  seemed  to  tighten  and  tremble. 
One  would  have  said  she  was  on  the  point  of  tears,  had  not 
tears  been  incongruous  with  her  full  and  statuesque  beauty. 
Maurice,  always  something  afraid  of  her,  hastened  to  greet 
her  warmly.  It  was  almost  a  measure  of  precaution. 

"Hullo,  Temple,"  she  said,  letting  the  white  lids  fall 
half  over  her  eyes,  pursing  her  mouth  as  though  she  would 
mince  her  speech.  "  Introduce  me." 

Ramsay,  exchanging  words  with  Anne,  interrupted 
unknowing.  "  Mrs.  Temple — Miss  Etheredge,  Miss  Ether- 
edge — Mr.  .  .  ."  Dennis  himself  supplied  his  name. 

Anne  saw  the  heavy  eyes,  the  large  and  delicate  oval 
face,  the  straight  nose.  Above  all,  she  saw  the  trembling 
nostrils  and  the  long,  full  upper  lip  with  its  chiselled  furrow. 
Strangely,  the  sight  moved  her  to  say  to  Ramsay  : 

"  Well,  hardly  Mrs.  Temple,  yet.  I  think  I  must  be 
Mrs.  Cradock  here." 

"  Quite  safe,"  said  Ramsay.  "  I'm  sorry  I  made  the 
mistake." 

"  But  I  told  you,"  said  Maurice.  He  was  confused  by 
the  contretemps,  and  he  felt  that  Anne  had  betrayed  him. 


298  STILL  LIFE 

"  It  don't  make  any  difference,  one  way  or  the  othe  T, 
said  Miss  Etheredge,  looking  steadily  at  Anne. 

Anne  sat  on  the  sofa  beside  her.  Ramsay  moved  deftly 
and  steadily  upon  his  appointed  paths,  preparing  tea. 
Dennis  roamed,  indifferent  and  curious,  about  the  room, 
wavering  before  the  picture,  and  finally  fixing  himself  by 
the  long  window,  looking  on  to  the  yard.  Maurice  sat  un- 
easy, with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  on  the  corner  of  a  white 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  looking  from  Dennis  to 
the  sofa,  from  the  sofa  to  Dennis,  uncomfortably  aware  of 
a  curious  glance  which  Miss  Etheredge  directed  to  him 
from  time  to  time,  and  grateful  when  Ramsay  appeared 
from  the  tiny  kitchen,  and  interposed  his  body  between 
the  sofa  and  himself. 

"  This  isn't  your  first  visit  to  Paris,  Mrs.  Cradock  ?  " 
said  Miss  Etheredge. 

"  No  !    But  I've  never  been  to  Montparnasse  before." 

"  I  envy  you.  I  wish  all  this  " — she  waved  her  cigarette 
about  her — "  was  new  to  me.  Even  Ramsay's  pictures  are 
pretty  stale  by  now."  Ramsay  came  in  with  the  boiling 
kettle,  and  bent  over  the  table.  "  Bill,  your  pictures  are 
stale.  Why  don't  you  get  a  new  idea  ?  I'm  tired  of  this. 
I  never  realised  before  that  sensuality  was  so  boring." 

Ramsay  laughed.  "  Give  me  the  new  idea.  I'll  see  what 
I  can  do  with  it." 

"  Well,  try  personality.  A  little  more  Bill  and  a  little 
less  idea.  I  prefer  personality  without  the  art  to  the  art 
without  the  personality.  But  I'm  not  sure  that  there's 
any  Bill  left.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  quite  so  much  of  a 
machine.  .  .  .  Now,  if  you'd  only  be  angry  with  me  for  what 
I'm  saying,  I'd  adore  you." 

Ramsay's  head  was  still  bent  over  the  teapot.  Without 
raising  it  he  nodded  in  his  thoughtful,  amused,  incredulous 
way. 

"You  haven't  seen  my  new  picture,"  Miss  Etheredge 
continued.  "  I'm  sick  of  this  cold-blooded  designing. 
Why  the  devil  should  you  mor-mortify  the  flesh  like  that  ? 


STILL  LIFE  299 

('  Mortify  the  flesh  '  is  right,  isn't  it,  Mrs.  Cradock  ?  I'm 
rather  bad  at  these  things.  I  didn't  have  the  advantage 
of  an  Oxford  education.)  You  never  get  any  atmosphere 
if  you  tackle  a  picture  like — a  spiritual  eunuch."  She 
laughed  excitedly.  "  Spiritual  eunuch,  yes,  that's  what 
you  are.  I  must  put  you  into  my  play.  Spiritual  eunuch 
married  to  the  goddess  of  Art.  .  .  .  I'm  writing  a  play,  Mrs. 
Cradock,  and  I'm  going  to  put  them  all  in,  him  too."  She 
nodded  to  Maurice,  who  had  gone  over  to  the  window,  and 
was  standing  with  his  arm  on  Dennis's  shoulder  and  his 
back  to  the  window. 

"  How  far  have  you  got  with  this  masterpiece  ?  "  said 
Ramsay. 

"  Far  enough  to  make  everybody  uncomfortable  ;  but 
I  haven't  finished  with  Wauchope  yet.  .  .  . 

"  But  you  don't  know  what  atmosphere  is,"  she  went 
on  abruptly.  "  Any  little  fool  can  come  along  and  talk 
about  it.  That's  why  you  don't  believe  in  it.  But  it's 
true  for  all  that.  Last  night  I  was  coming  home  from  the 
other  side,  about  half-past  two  in  the  morning,  by  the 
Louvre.  As  I  came  under  the  arch,  I  could  have  sworn  I 
was  in  Edinburgh.  You  know  the  big  magasin,  Bill  ? 
They  had  started  rebuilding  or  something.  There  were 
great  beams  screwed  together  stuck  up  against  the  wall, 
quite  black.  Nobody  about  except  a  Chinaman,  who  had 
been  following  me  for  an  hour."  She  laughed  excitedly 
again.  "  The  top  of  that  place  over  the  arches  is  all  a  kind 
of  pink  in  the  daytime.  There  was  a  bright  moon  and  dead 
black  shadows.  I  stood  under  the  arch  of  the  Louvre,  with 
the  big  shop  and  the  scaffolding  warm  rose  and  black  on 
the  other  side  of  the  square. 

"  Anything  might  have  happened  there.  Oh,  it  was 
wonderful.  That's  atmosphere — where  anything,  any 
damn  thing  might  happen.  I  tried  to  paint  it  all  last  night 
when  I  got  in.  I  went  at  it  till  God  knows  when.  I've 
only  just  got  up.  If  you  could  do  that,  it's  better  than  all 
your  rotten  old  designs.  That's  got  personality — sen- 


300  STILL  LIFE 

suality — everything.  Your  sensuality  is  only  theory.  .  .  . 
You'd  better  come  soon.  I  know  I'll  burn  it  when  I  see  it 
again.  I  cut  up  my  last  four  yesterday."  Her  voice  was 
wet  with  suppressed  tears.  Aime  saw  them  brimming  in 
her  eyes,  always  about  to  overflow. 

"  I'll  come  first  thing  to-morrow.  I'm  not  painting," 
said  Ramsay. 

"  May  I  come  to  see  it  ?  "  said  Anne. 

"I'll  try  to  keep  it  for  you.  I  can't  guarantee  any- 
thing, you  see."  She  laughed  helplessly.  "  But  come 
to-morrow." 

"  It's  sure  to  be  worth  while,"  said  Ramsay. 

To  Anne  the  remark  was  superfluous,  even  stupid.  Yet 
Miss  Etheredge  seemed  grateful.  Anne  was  almost 
annoyed  with  her,  for  a  moment,  and  then,  because  his 
words  seemed  to  have  comforted  Miss  Etheredge,  was 
herself  grateful  to  Ramsay. 

Miss  Etheredge  tried  hard  to  control  herself  into  calm. 
Anne  was  infinitely  apprehensive  lest  anyone  but  herself 
should  notice  it.  Miss  Etheredge  seemed  to  care  less. 

"  I  haven't  changed  much,  have  I  ?  "  she  said  to  Maurice. 

"  I'm  glad,"  he  said.  The  question  was  intimate  and 
comforting  for  him. 

"  I  really  believe  you  are.  I  think  you  are  the  only  one 
who's  really  cared  a  damn  about  me.  .  .  .  It's  a  good  job 
Bill  doesn't.  ...  I'd  have  been  turned  out  of  his  studio, 
years  ago." 

Ramsay  laughed  and  went  on  talking  to  Dennis  about 
hospitals  and  medical  lectures,  of  which  he,  too,  had  had 
some  experience. 

"  Have  you  been  long  together  ?  "  Miss  Etheredge 
turned  to  Anne. 

"  No  .  .  .  hardly  over  a  month."  Anne  saw  the  puzzled 
look  in  her  eyes,  and  could  not  keep  her  own  from  smiling. 

"  Were  you  married  a  long  while,  before  ?  " 

"  Quite  a  long  while — years." 

"  Do  you  like  him  ?  "  Miss  Etheredge  nodded  to  Maurice. 


STILL  LIFE  301 

"  Naturally." 

"I'm  being  rude  .  .  .  but  I  can't  make  you  out.  Are  you 
simple  or  very  clever  ?  Perhaps  you're  both."  She  looked 
at  Maurice  for  some  moments  as  though  she  were  trying  to 
understand  him.  "  I  don't  suppose  it  matters  very  much. 
...  I  suppose  you  thought  I  was  being  a  fool  just  now  ?  " 

"  Not  for  a  moment,"  said  Anne  quietly. 

"  Is  that  true  ?  "  Miss  Etheredge's  wonderful  upper  lip 
began  to  tremble.  Anne  made  no  reply  by  word,  but 
looked  at  her.  The  glance,  potent  with  Anne's  deep  desire 
to  be  near  Miss  Etheredge,  to  stand  between  her  and  the 
world  of  which  she  was  contemptuous  and  afraid,  did  not 
fail. 

"  I  was  pretty  lonely  when  you  were  here,  wasn't  I, 
Temple  ?  " 

Anne  watched  Maurice  narrowly.  She  saw  him  give  a 
little  shudder,  when  he  replied,  "  Ghastly." 

"  He  cried  over  me  a  bit,"  Miss  Etheredge  explained  to 
Anne.  "  It  doesn't  happen  often.  I  liked  him  for  it." 
Maurice  smiled  feebly  at  Anne.  It  was  a  depressing 
memory. 

"  Well,  I'm  even  worse  off  now,"  went  on  Miss  Ether- 
edge.  "  Fernandez.  .  .  .  You  remember  Fernandez.  .  .  .  Oh, 
you  never  saw  him  .  .  .  but  you  heard  me  talk  about  him. 
Well,  Fernandez  is  gone.  We  had  a  great  row,  not  so  very 
long  ago,  and  now  he  cuts  me  dead." 

"  What  about  ?  "  asked  Maurice. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know."  She  bent  down  and  busied  herself 
with  putting  her  cigarette  ash  into  a  saucei.  Maurice 
could  see  the  film  of  unformed  tears  through  her  long 
lashes.  "  I  had  my  revolver,  and  tried  to  shoot  him — 
something  like  that.  It's  a  complicated  story."  She  turned 
to  Anne.  "  It  always  ends  like  like  that.  There's  nobody 
except  Bill,  and  Bill  doesn't  care  a  hang,  does  he  ?  "  She 
spoke  to  Ramsay,  who  was  drawing  a  diagram  of  some 
proposition  in  physics  on  the  table.  He  glanced  up,  then 
down  at  his  pencil,  then  up  again  at  Miss  Etheredge. 


302  STILL  LIFE 

"  The  only  reason  that  he  sticks  there  is  that  you  can't 
quarrel  with  him,  can  you,  Bill  ?  " 

"  It's  pretty  hard,"  he  said. 

Dennis  had  been  vaguely  watching  her  before.  As 
Ramsay  looked  up  from  his  diagram,  his  eyes  followed 
and  looked  at  her  steadily.  She  returned  his  look  coolly. 
It  was  rather  repartee  than  curiosity  or  interest.  Her  lip 
did  not  tremble.  Dennis  bent  down  again  to  consider 
Ramsay's  reasoning,  resumed  with  the  pencil. 

*'  But  a  theory  like  that  isn't  a  fact.  It's  only  a  symbolic 
way  of  stating  facts  that  you  can't  discover.  There's  a  gap 
that  must  be  filled  with  something,  and  as  nobody  knows 
what  does  fill  it,  everybody  agrees  that  the  neatest  arrange- 
ment is  the  true  one.  They  can't  even  tell  whether  it  works 
or  not.  .  .  ." 

"  But  look  here  ..."  protested  Ramsay. 

"  That's  Bill  all  over,"  said  Miss  Etheredge.  "  He's 
always  boiling  his  personality  down  into  a  proposition  of 
Euclid.  It  wouldn't  matter  so  much  if  he  didn't  believe 

in  it Perhaps  it's  as  well. . . .  He'd  go  like  the  rest Do 

you  have  days  like  this  ?  I  have  weeks  of  them." 

"  Days,  yes.  I  don't  think  they're  as  bad  as  yours, 
though." 

"  Mine  are  something  special.  .  .  .  You're  older  than  me, 
ain't  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  thirty-two." 

"  Six  years.  It's  a  good  deal.  ...  I  can't  make  you  out." 
At  that  moment  Maurice  realised  that  he  had  not  made 
Anne  out  either.  Even  now  he  felt  much  nearer  to  Miss 
Etheredge  than  to  Anne.  He  looked  from  her,  and  with 
his  chin  on  his  hands,  watched  Anne  curiously. 

"  Have  you  got  many  friends  ?  "  said  Miss  Etheredge. 

"  Very  few." 

"  Why  ?  " 

Anne  smiled  in  a  semi-perplexity.  "  I  think  I  got  tired 
of  asking  first-rate  things  from  second-rate  people.  I'm 
very  self-absorbed,  too." 


STILL  LIFE  303 

;'  That  sounds  very  deep.  ..." 

"  It's  not.  It's  only  the  words.  I  fancy  I'm  not  very 
good  at  words.  But  I  don't  believe  it's  difficult  for  you.  I 
should  think  you'd  have  done  the  same  thing.  Perhaps 
the  difference  between  us  is  that  you  expect  more  from 
life  than  I  do." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

Anne's  last  sentence  struck  very  chill  upon  Maurice. 
He  felt  it  was  somehow  unfair  to  him.  Anne  ought  not  to 
have  said  it.  After  all,  they  were  together  for  something. 
It  was  a  kind  of  treason  to  ring  down  the  curtain  on  their 
future  like  that. 

He  pretended  mere  curiosity  as  he  interrupted : 

"  How  do  you  mean  you  don't  expect  as  much  from  life 
as  Miss  Etheredge  1  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  venture  quite  so  much,  so  my  mistakes  don't 
cost  me  so  much." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Miss  Etheredge. 

Maurice  resented  that.  The  privilege  of  understanding 
Anne  was  his.  But  Miss  Etheredge's  acquiescence  shut 
him  off  from  asking  more.  He  could  not  show  himself  be- 
hind her  in  understanding.  He  was  jealous,  and  he  turned 
dully  to  watch  Ramsay  and  Dennis.  He  hadn't  got  very 
near  to  Anne,  he  thought,  and  yet  they  were  near  enough, 
surely.  He  had  been  perfectly  happy  all  the  while  they 
had  been  in  Paris.  It  was  a  glow  in  his  memory,  suffused, 
too,  into  the  present.  The  half-formed  suspicion  that  it 
had  been  nothing  more  than  a  supreme  holiday  flitted 
across  a  window  of  his  mind.  It  was  driven  into  the  un- 
known whence  it  came.  Ramsay  asked  him  a  question. 

"  That  was  your  idea  about  the  Egyptians,  wasn't  it, 
Temple  ?  " 

It  was,  indeed,  one  of  the  few  theories  he  had  himself 
excogitated,  yet  not  communicated  to  Dennis,  for  it 
belonged  to  a  period  before  Dennis  had  become  im- 
portant to  him.  He  burst  into  anxious  explanation,  not 
without  pride, 


304  STILL  LIFE 

The  two  women  were  silent,  idly  watching. 

"  Does  this  interest  you  ?  "  said  Miss  Etheredge. 

"  Sometimes,  not  now.  Just  now  they  seem  to  me  too 
much  like  children  playing  a  game." 

Dennis  alone  of  the  men  heard  the  remark.  His  interest 
in  the  discussion  was  but  desultory  and  half-hearted. 
Anne's  opinion  chimed  with  his  own,  and  he  would  make 
this  plain  to  her. 

"  We'd  better  change  places,"  he  said  to  Maurice.  "  I'm 
getting  off  my  ground.  You  won't  gain  anything  by  talk- 
ing across  me." 

Maurice  accepted  his  profession  of  incompetence  without 
question,  and  moved  into  Dennis's  chair  without  even 
raising  his  eyes  from  Ramsay's  pencil.  Dennis  settled  him- 
self and  looked  at  Miss  Etheredge.  He  had  noticed  her, 
when  he  came  into  the  room,  but  as  anyone  might  have 
noticed  a  woman  of  an  obviously  magnificent  and  un- 
familiar kind.  It  was  Anne's  evident  interest  in  her,  and 
the  immediate  sympathy  which  contrasted  strongly  with 
his  recollections  of  Anne's  attitude  to  other  women,  rather 
than  any  impulse  of  his  own  which  prompted  the  deliberate 
scrutiny  he  had  afterwards  made.  While  he  had  been  talk- 
ing with  a  superficial  absorption  to  Ramsay,  he  had  felt 
that  Anne  and  Miss  Etheredge  were  completely  apart, 
somehow  united  and  impregnable  in  the  company.  Anne 
did  not  move  out  of  their  stronghold  to  welcome  him,  as 
he  drew  forward  in  his  chair,  away  from  the  theorists. 
She  seemed  to  be  guarding  Miss  Etheredge,  against  him 
or  against  herself.  It  was  rather  against  herself,  for  Miss 
Etheredge  had  no  hesitations  in  approach. 

"  I  suppose  all  this  sort  of  thing  is  new  to  you,  too,"  she 
said. 

"  Very  new.  I'm  feeling  very  much  lost  in  it  all.  The 
theories  are  too  deep  and  the  pictures  too  strange." 

"  You  feel  altogether  rather  superior,  don't  you  ?  " 

He  was  not  at  all  prepared  for  the  sudden  thrust.  The 
surprise  of  an  unexpected  bludgeon,  where  he  might  have 


STILL  LIFE  305 

expected  a  rapier,  stunned  him.  But  he  was  not  the  man 
to  show  it. 

"  I  never  heard  of  a  good  doctor  who  imagined  himself 
superior  to  a  painter,  not  even  the  very  worst  painter  (I 
dare  say  a  bad  doctor  might  think  himself  better  than 
Velasquez,  so  I  leave  bad  ones  out).  A  good  one  would  have 
a  sneaking  admiration  for  a  first  year  student  at  the 
Academy." 

"  So  you're  a  good  doctor,  are  you." 

"  I  was,"  he  said. 

"  That's  a  good  thing.  I  hate  doctors.  I've  seen  too 
many  of  them.  My  father  was  one.  They're  so  damn  self- 
confident.  Painters  are  bad  enough.  They  can  generally 
floor  anybody  by  talking  about  their  studio  ;  but  a  doctor 
always  carries  a  stethoscope  sticking  out  of  him  somewhere. 
You  can't  get  at  him  when  he  hides  behind  it.  ...  What 
did  you  give  it  up  for  ?  " 

Dennis  knew  that  Anne  was  watching  him.  He  was 
distinctly  uncomfortable.  If  he  were  to  devote  himself  to 
a  victory  over  Miss  Etheredge,  to  which  she  sorely  tempted 
him,  he  would  antagonise  Anne.  If  he  allowed  himself  to 
be  overcome  by  her,  not  only  would  he  feel  smaller  in 
Anne's  sight,  but  she  herself  would  be  disappointed  in  him. 
Instinctively  he  had  recourse  to  as  much  of  candidness  as 
was  possible  for  him. 

"  I  don't  really  know  how  I  gave  it  up.  I've  been 
saying  I  would  give  it  up  any  time  during  the  last 
three  years.  Somehow  I  never  did,  and  I  can't  see  why 
I  didn't  go  on  in  the  same  way.  However,  I  didn't.  I 
resigned  my  job  about  a  week  ago.  Now  I'm  surprised 
at  myself." 

"  That's  very  nice  for  you.  ..." 

"  And  quite  unusual."  There  was  a  portentous  hostility 
beneath  her  words,  and  their  failure  to  express  it  made 
them  nearly  ludicrous.  Dennis  found  it  better  to  ignore 
the  hostility  altogether.  The  violence  of  Miss  Etheredge's 
attack  lay  rather  in  her  tone  than  her  actual  words,  which 


306  STILL  LIFE 

were  headlong  and  clumsy.    The  very  way  in  which  she 
exposed  herself  in  attack  fascinated  him. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  you're  very  clever,"  said  Miss 
Etheredge.  The  curious  intonation  of  her  voice,  an 
equable  and  clearly  marked  cadence  in  her  words,  and  the 
real  malice  she  managed  to  convey  into  them  prevented 
Dennis  for  an  instant  from  realising  how  childish  they  were. 
He  realised  it  with  a  start  of  surprise.  They  were  the 
actual  words  of  innumerable  actual  children.  It  was  an 
experience  unlike  any  that  he  had  had  before.  To  have 
replied  to  the  malice  in  the  words  would  have  demanded 
all  his  energy,  to  reply  to  the  actual  words  was  a  triviality 
he  had  forgotten  in  his  teens.  He  recovered  himself  with 
difficulty. 

"  Not  so  very  clever,"  he  said.  "  But  as  clever  as  most 
people.  But  what  makes  you  think  I  am  so  very  clever  ?  " 

"  I  don't."  Miss  Etheredge  sucked  at  her  cigarette. 
Her  full  upper  lip  protruded  too  far  for  the  gesture  to 
appear  anything  but  conscious.  She  looked  across  Anne 
at  the  wall.  A  faint  and  very  uncertain  smile  in  her  eyes, 
that  seemed  to  be  drawn  and  puckered  forward  like  her 
lips.  Her  legs  were  crossed,  and  one  swung  with  a  vigorous 
indifference. 

"  Then  why  did  you  say  so  '?  " 

She  took  the  cigarette  out  of  her  mouth  and  slowly 
turned  her  face  half-way  towards  him.  "  I  don't  know," 
she  said,  and  resumed  her  smoking,  her  stare,  and  her  leg- 
swinging. 

Dennis  knew  that  if  any  other  woman  had  behaved  like 
this  it  would  have  been  ridiculous  and  contemptible.  Miss 
Etheredge  was  neither,  save  to  ridiculous  and  contemptible 
people.  Her  perversity  was  so  plainly  a  mere  veneer. 
Nevertheless,  it  baffled  him.  He  hated  her  inscrutability. 
He  could  do  nothing  but  look  at  her.  He  glanced  at  Anne. 
She  might  have  been  the  impartial  arbiter  between  them, 
so  little  could  be  read  in  her  eyes  as  they  slowly  turned 
from  regarding  Miss  Etheredge  to  meet  his. 


STILL  LIFE  307 

"  Do  you  like  clever  people  ?  "  Miss  Etheredge  asked 
Anne. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  really  clever,  or  the  other  kind  ?  I 
like  the  really  clever  ones.  I've  met  very,  very  few.  .  .  . 
I  like  him.  I  think  he's  really  clever." 

"  Do  you  now  ?  . . .  I  must  have  met  only  the  other  kind, 
I  think.  There  are  so  many  people  who  are  supposed  to  be 
clever  here."  She  spoke  generally  to  both  Anne  and 
Dennis.  "  They  madden  me.  You  can't  believe  what 
fools  I  can  make  them  look  in  a  couple  of  minutes.  And 
then  they  hate  me  for  it.  ...  I  don't  wonder.  ...  I  dare  say 
he  hates  me  now."  She  looked  at  Dennis,  with  a  wry  smile. 
Her  voice  was  liquid  and  full. 

"  Not  a  bit.    Why  should  I  ?  " 

"  After  all,  I  dicln't  make  a  fool  of  you."  She  might 
have  been  in  despair  at  the  failure. 

"  It  was  touch  and  go,  anyhow." 

Miss  Etheredge  faced  the  wall  again.  After  a  moment 
she  turned  herself  half  towards  him,  looking  down  through 
her  half-closed  eyes  towards  him,  mincing  her  words 
through  her  pursed  lips. 

"  Are  you  coming  to  see  my  picture  ?  " 

"  I'd  like  to  very  much." 

"  That's  very  good  of  you  .  .  .  but  it's  nice  to  have  one 
visit  before  I  quarrel  with  you."  She  faced  the  wall 
while  she  spoke.  "  I  told  you  I  couldn't  guarantee  the 
picture.  It's  pretty  certain  it  won't  be  there.  ...  I'd  take 
a  bet  on  it.  ...  So  you'd  better  come  when  something  will 
be  certain,  tea-time.  .  . .  But  come  when  you  like.  . . .  Look 
here,  I'll  give  you  the  address." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  bell  tinkled,  and  Ramsay,  with  his  pencil  still  in  his 
fingers,  went  to  open  the  door. 

"Hullo,  A.  S.,"  he  said,  as  though  thinking  of  something 
altogether  different,  and  began  to  walk  back  to  his  seat, 
leaving  Wauchope  free  to  enter  through  the  open  door. 
Then  he  recollected  himself.  "  But  you  don't  know  these 
people."  And  perfunctorily  he  introduced  Dennis  and 
Anne — Anne  as  Mrs.  Cradock.  Wauchope  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  with  his  hat  and  coat  in  his  hands, 
bowing  and  peering  towards  the  table.  Ramsay  sat  down, 
looking  at  his  diagrams  on  the  table,  and  drew  curves. 
He  wrinkled  his  forehead  when  he  raised  his  eyes  to  glance 
at  Wauchope. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Wauchope,"  said  Miss  Etheredge, 
looking  away  from  him  to  the  wall.  She  turned  half-way 
to  meet  him  as  he  came  forward  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  I  hardly  expected  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  here," 
he  said. 

Even  Maurice  began  to  watch  them  furtively.  The  tone 
of  their  greeting  imparted  some  electric  current  to  the  com- 
pany. His  argument  with  Ramsay  automatically  ceased. 

"  No  ?  "  she  said,  and  puffed  at  her  cigarette. 

"  It  occurs  so  seldom  that  we  must  make  the  most  of  it," 
Wauchope  said,  as  he  drew  forward  a  chair  and  sat  on 
Dennis's  right  hand,  "  Bill,  could  you  manage  just  one 
cup  of  tea  for  me  ?  It  doesn't  matter  if  it's  cold.  Pour  me 
donner  du  courage"  His  glance  paused  on  the  way  back 
from  Ramsay  and  fixed  upon  Anne.  She  quickened  in 
antagonism  under  it ;  but  she  was  so  little  excited  that 
she  knew  herself  master  of  the  situation. 


STILL  LIFE  309 

"  Are  you,  by  any  chance,  a  relation  of  the  dramatic 
critic  ?  "  Wauchope  asked. 

;<  Yes,"  she  said.    "  He  is  my  husband." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  under  a  misapprehension." 
He  turned  an  explanatory  glance  towards  Maurice  and 
Ramsay. 

Dennis  felt  that  he  did  not  like  Wauchope,  but  he  tried 
in  vain  to  despise  him.  It  was  curious  that  he  was  able 
to  agitate  Miss  Etheredge  so  much.  For  that  power,  in 
spite  of  himself,  he  rather  envied  him.  Ideally  Mauric 
would  have  indignantly  denounced  him,  but  knowing  it 
impossible,  had  a  sneaking  admiration  of  his  sangfroid. 

"  Of  course,  he's  in  my  play,"  said  Miss  Etheredge  to 
Anne  and  Dennis.  "  He's  the  ragged  harlequin.  The  suit 
was  new  once,  but  it's  getting  rather  worn  now,  isn't  it, 
Mr.  Wauchope  ?  .  .  .  One  or  two  extra  patches  don't 
matter.  They're  all  in  the  scheme  of  decoration." 

"  Aren't  you  being  rather  obscure  ?  It's  difficult  for 
Mrs.  Cradock  and  Mr.  Beauchamp  to  understand,  surely. 
I'm  not  quite  certain  that  I  understand  myself." 

"  How's  Miss  Farrell  ?  "  Miss  Etheredge  asked  inconse- 
quently.  Her  white  face  was  a  trifle  paler.  Her  leg  swung 
violently.  Never  for  a  moment  did  she  look  at  Wauchope. 

"  Quite  well,  when  I  last  saw  her,"  he  said.  "  She  told 
me  if  I  saw  you  to  give  you  her  love." 

Miss  Etheredge  was  beside  herself. 

"  I  suppose  she  didn't  give  you  the  ten  pounds  she  owes 
me  ?  " 

"  No,  she  didn't  say  anything  about  that." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  have  it  back.  You  can  tell  her 
that,  if  you  see  her  again."  Miss  Etheredge's  voice  rose. 
"  People  come  and  live  on  you  and  borrow  your  money, 
when  you  haven't  got  enough  to  pay  your  baker  or  your 
rent,  and  then  they  just  clear  out  without  a  word,  and  go 
and  live  with  some  fool  of  a  man  who'll  keep  them  for  a 
month.  Then  they  come  running  back.  She'd  better  not 
try  that  this  time.  You  can  tell  her  that,  too,  Mr.  Wau 


310  STILL  LIFE 

chope.  Tell  her  I'm  very  grateful  that  she  left  my  revolver 
behind." 

Wauchope  ostentatiously  turned  to  Anne. 

"  You're  not  in  the  movement — not  c  one  of  us ' — I 
suppose,  Mrs.  Cradock  ?  " 

Anne  was  reluctant  to  be  made,  even  faintly,  accessory 
to  the  quarrel,  doubly  reluctant  to  be  opposing  Miss 
Etheredge  ;  but  she  could  hardly  help  replying  : 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I've  ever  managed  to  be  in  any 
movement  at  all." 

"  That's  a  rare  experience.  It's  only  come  to  me  late 
in  life.  I  think  I  must  be  like  you,  now ;  for  as  far  as  I 
can  see  I've  been  turned  out  of  this  one — turned  out  or 
left  behind.  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  don't  paint  or 
write  or  make  music  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  do  any  of  those  things."  Anne  had  to 
receive  the  conversation  made  for  her  by  Wauchope,  but 
she  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  assist  him.  Miss  Etheredge 
watched  him  constantly,  with  an  obvious  sneer.  Wauchope 
appeared  perfectly  unconscious  of  her  presence.  Dennis 
listened  to  the  conversation  with  the  indifference  of  a 
spectator.  He  was  both  anxious  and  afraid  to  speak  to 
Miss  Etheredge,  and  he  waited  in  expectation  of  an  ex- 
plosion. He  was  fascinated  by  the  large  way  in  which  she 
showed  that  she  was  incapable  of  concealing  her  feelings 
or  careless  of  showing  them. 

Ramsay  glanced  up  under  his  wrinkled  forehead  and 
waited  a  moment,  inspecting  the  company. 

"  A.  S.,  you  come  and  help  us  out  of  this,"  he  said. 
"  Temple  can't  see  my  arguments.  He's  getting  senti- 
mental." Ramsay  made  room  for  Wauchope  between  them 
and  shifted  nearer  to  Anne.  "  I  hope  you're  not  responsible 
for  this,"  he  said  to  her.  "  He's  a  regular  heretic  now." 

Wauchope,  really  relieved  at  the  diversion,  came  round. 
"  What's  it  all  about  ?  "  he  asked. 

Maurice  explained  that  he  could  not  see  why  the  fact, 
if  it  were  a  fact,  that  the  whole  universe  resolved  into 


STILL  LIFE  311 

material  atoms,  should  be  regarded  as  an  explanation  of 
life,  much  less  of  art. 

"  What's  your  idea,  first  ?  "  asked  Wauchope. 

"  I  quite  agree  that  there  are  atoms — or  something  of 
the  sort.  But  they  can't  be  everything.  There  must  be 
something  to  sort  them  and  shape  them.  Or  does  he  mean 
than  they  do  it  themselves  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  are  such  things  as  attraction,"  said  Ramsay, 
not  yet  wholly  decided  to  leave  his  argument  to  Wauchope. 
"  Forces.  .  .  ." 

Maurice,  the  master  of  a  small  dialectic,  was  confident 
and  happy  in  the  prospect  of  a  fair  field. 

"  Are  the  forces  all  of  the  same  kind  ?  "  he  began. 

"  You  ought  to  meet  Miss  Netta  Farrell,"  said  Miss 
Etheredge  to  Anne.  "  She's  a  type  I  don't  suppose  you've 
ever  seen." 

"  Is  she  so  very  remarkable  ?    What  is  she  like  ?  " 

"  She  looks  fine,  slim,  not  too  tall,  small  breasts — rather 
like  a  boy.  She  was  staying  with  me  up  to  about  six  weeks 
ago.  Came  and  said  I  was  her  only  friend.  So  I  was.  At 
all  events  she  lived  ofi  me  and  didn't  pay  a  penny  of  the 
rent.  She  had  twice  as  much  money  as  I  had.  Brought 
her  men  along  to  my  flat."  She  laughed  excitedly. 
"  Perhaps  she  thought  she  was  doing  me  a  good  turn, 
bringing  them  along  to  me  when  she  had  finished  with 
them — handselling  my  bridal  couch.  Oh,  yes,  Netta's 
a  rare  one.  She  was  funny,  too."  Her  voice  ran  higher 
and  higher. 

"  I  shan't  ever  forget  the  trick  she  played  on  me  with 
Bowley.  You  don't  know  Bowley,  do  you  ?  He's  an 
American  with  a  face  like  a  Jewish  gorilla,  who  wears  wide 
check  trousers.  Oh,  Bowley's  a  great  man,  I  can  tell 
you.  He  had  a  profound  passion  for  me  once.  Used  to  be 
always  following  me  across  the  street,  asking  me  if  I'd  go 
to  the  Tabarin  with  him,  and  sending  boxes  of  chocolate 
up  to  my  flat — studio,  I  should  say.  Yes,  you  must  meet 
Bowley.  He's  one  of  those  Americans  with  a  highly 


312  STILL  LIFE 

developed  moral  sense  who  never  marry  their  mistresses, 
and  never  pay  a  cocotte  more  than  trade  union  rates.  .  .  . 

"  When  Netta  turned  up,  he  wasn't  quite  so  sweet  on 
me  any  more."  She  laughed  hysterically.  "  But  he  was 
terribly  sorry  for  Netta,  terribly.  Besides,  she  was  going 
to  be  very  ill  for  her  wickedness,  very.  Oh,  I  didn't  tell 
you  what  she  came  over  here  for.  That's  important.  In 
England  she  had  a  great  man  called  Benjamin,  really 
Benjamin,  who  used  to  walk  about  in  a  deer-stalker  hat, 
and  had  made  a  fortune  out  of  a  patent  beer  engine,  or 
something  like  that.  He's  a  queer  type,  too,  is  Benjamin. 
A  devil  of  a  lot  more  in  him  than  you'd  think.  He's  got 
the  insides  of  a  child,  for  all  his  money  and  his  hats  and  his 
guns.  Netta  told  me  some  wonderful  stories  about  him." 
She  laughed  again  ;  all  her  words  were  carried  upon  a  note 
that  rose  precariously  between  a  shriek  and  a  laugh. 
"  Well,  Benjamin  was  keen  on  Netta.  He  never  used  to 
have  a  home — always  a  suite  of  rooms  in  a  hotel.  He  used 
to  cry  about  it  sometimes.  Anyhow,  there  was  going  to 
be  a  little  Benjamin,  and  that's  why  she  came  over  here, 
to  see  that  there  shouldn't  be.  She  came  to  me,  because 
when  she  was  a  model,  I  was  always  fond  of  her.  She's 
different  from  all  the  others.  She's  got  personality,  I  can 
tell  you." 

Miss  Etheredge  stopped  abruptly.  "  No,  I'd  better  not 
go  on  with  this  story.  It's  very  improper. ' '  Miss  Etheredge 
was  crying,  but  making  no  sound.  Anne  and  Dennis  could 
see  the  two  large  tears  that  rolled  from  her  eyes.  "  Netta's 
a  woman  you  won't  meet  in  a  hurry.  Perhaps  I'll  tell  you 
the  story  when  you  come  to  see  me.  It's  something  to  come 
for." 

"  What's  happened  to  her  now  ?  "  asked  Anne. 

"  She  went  off  with  Bowley  for  a  day  or  two.  After  that 
I  don't  know.  She  came  back  to  me  once,  but  I  didn't 
let  her  in.  She  was  outside  the  door  calling  out,  '  Let  me 
come  in.  Let  me  come  in.'  I  wasn't  doing  anything  of 
the  sort,  though.  She  said  she'd  tell  all  my  relations  about 


STILL  LIFE  313 

me.  She'd  have  some  trouble  to  find  them.  I  should 
myself.  I  don't  know  where  she  is  now.  But  I've  got  a 
pretty  good  idea.  You  should  ask  Mr.  Wauchope  there." 
She  raised  her  voice  so  that  he  could  hear,  but  he  went  on 
undisturbed  with  his  argument. 

"  Oh,  it's  a  damn  funny  world,  isn't  it  ?  When  you  have 
to  turn  out  the  only  woman  you  can  tolerate,  and  she  first 
clears  off  without  paying  you  a  penny  herself,  and  goes 
and  blues  all  her  money  with  some  ghastly  idiot  of  a  man 
between  Monday  and  Thursday  night.  It  wouldn't  matter 
if  she  got  hold  of  a  decent  man.  But  Bowley,  my  God ! 
He's  got  about  as  much  notion  of  personality  as  the  table 
here.  It's  funny. 

"  And  then  if  you  ask  her  why  she  does  it,  she  says, 
'  Because  he  is  such  a  poor  dear  fool.'  And  it's  not  very 
hard  to  understand  either.  A  woman  with  personality — 
most  of  them — have  got  the  choice  between  that  and 
hysteria.  I  don't  wonder  they'd  sooner  have  Bowley. 
Believe  I  would  myself,  if  my  father  hadn't  been  a  doctor. 
.  .  .  Oh,  no,  you  can't  get  rid  of  Netta  as  he'd  like  to." 
She  nodded  at  Wauchope.  "  She's  just  herself,  and  it 
wouldn't  matter  what  she  did  or  what  happened  to  her ; 
she'd  always  have  some  shred  of  herself  on,  and  you'd 
have  to  take  off  your  hat  to  that,  Mr.  Beauchamp." 

"  I  should,"  murmured  Dennis. 

Miss  Etheredge  was  silent  for  a  little  while.  Anne  was 
thinking  about  what  she  had  said.  Dennis  felt  that  his 
own  word  had  been  ridiculously  inadequate,  and  that 
anything  he  might  have  said  would  have  been  equally 
out  of  place.  Miss  Etheredge  did  not  seem  to  think  so. 
She  looked  at  him  with  less  antagonism  than  she  had  yet 
manifested  towards  him.  Her  voice  almost  lapsed  into 
friendliness. 

"  I  believe  you  would.  ..." 

Maurice's  voice  rose  in  the  ensuing  silence. 

"  But  thinking  isn't  everything.  I  don't  mean  that  you 
get  anywhere  if  you  give  it  up,  just  because  you  give  it  up. 


314  STILL  LIFE 

That's  mysticism  and  rot.  But  you  never  really  do  get 
anywhere  by  thinking  alone.  You  believe  you  do,  Kamsay, 
but  you're  only  deceiving  yourself.  Take  your  painting  a 
picture  ..." 

"  It's  a  terrible  pity  your  father  was  a  doctor,"  said 
Anne  to  Miss  Etheredge.  "  Or  that  you  had  a  father  at 
all.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  doubtfully,  enquiringly  at  Anne. 

"  I  mean  you  pay  for  your  personality.  The  more  you 
pay  the  more  you  have.  But  there's  a  limit  ..." 

"  You  think  I've  reached  the  limit  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  should 
think  so.  ...  I  wonder  sometimes  how  long  I  can  go  on 
being  lonely.  ...  I  quarrel  most  with  the  people  I  like 
best.  That's  in  my  destiny.  Some  nights  I  could  go  mad 
with  thinking  about  it.  You  say  my  father  has  something 
to  do  with  it  ?  ...  You  weren't  an  actress,  were  you  ?  " 
she  asked  inconsequently. 

Dennis  was  rather  surprised  that  Anne  took  the  question 
seriously.  She  shook  her  head  gravely. 

"  That's  true  ?  "  asked  Miss  Etheredge  again.  "  Only 
you  look  like  one.  I  don't  mean  one  of  the  types  of  the 
Folies  Bergeres  or  the  Gaiety,  but  a  real  actress — an 
artist.  There's  something  about  your  mouth,  and  your 
eyes.  ...  I  know  I've  never  seen  them  before,  but  I  seem 
to  remember  them.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  No, 
you  wouldn't  say.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  "  she  asked 
Dennis,  and  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  "  There  will  be 
some  word  for  it.  The  only  one  I  know  is  tragic — and 
that  sounds  like  Madame  Steinheil.  .  .  .  Was  anybody 
very  bad  to  you  ?  " 

"No.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Only  you  look  as  though — someone  might  have  been. 
.  .  .  But  it  might  have  been  anything  else.  It's  what  I 
meant  when  I  said  I  remembered  your  face,  though  I  knew 
I  hadn't  seen  it." 

Dennis  sat  forward  in  his  chair  to  watch  and  listen. 
Before  his  mind  hovered  the  unpleasant  thought  that  he 


STILL  LIFE  315 

fell  in  a  void  between  Anne  who  could  thus  quietly  induce 
Miss  Etheredge  to  forget  herself  and  Wauchope  who  could 
irritate  her  into  a  frenzy  of  unreserve  by  a  look.  She  had 
been  hostile  to  him  but  he  had  played  no  conscious  part  in 
exciting  her  hostility.  He  desired  to  affect  her  directly, 
to  compel  her.  Without  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was, 
somehow,  unworthy,  and  that  his  claim  to  be  an  individual 
person  was  false.  In  his  moments  of  detachment  he  could 
admire  them  both,  not  unenviously,  for  the  completeness 
of  their  contact  and  of  their  separation  from  the  others. 
But  continually  this  detachment  failed  him,  as  it  were 
dissolved  away  before  a  desperate  desire  to  prove  his  own 
worth  by  forcing  Miss  Etheredge  to  acknowledge  his 
power. 

He  found  himself  looking  in  Anne's  face  for  the  quality 
which  Miss  Etheredge  had  seen  there,  wondering  why  he 
had  not  detected  it  before.  He  thought  he  could  see  it 
now,  but  so  soon  as  he  tried  to  define  it  in  her  face  it 
escaped  him.  Anne  seemed  suddenly  to  become  young, 
as  though  in  the  effort  of  searching  her  face  a  new  vision 
of  her  triumphantly  superseded  the  old.  And  she  did 
look  young.  Her  mouth  was  not  full ;  though  it  was  not 
hard,  it  would  have  needed  much  to  make  it  tremble. 
It  was  firm  and  confident  like  a  young  girl's.  So  was  the 
definite  oval  of  her  face  ;  but  perhaps  a  little  thinner,  not 
merely  bounded,  but  shaped  within  itself,  and  at  rare 
moments  pallidly  grey.  It  was  her  eyes  that  held  the  secret. 
One  could  not  look  at  them  now,  he  thought,  without 
referring  them  to  a  past,  when  the  brown  pupils  had  been 
clear  with  perpetual  surprise.  Now  they  seemed  to  have 
been  dusted  over  with  faint  red  gold.  They  had  darkened 
themselves  from  their  former  clearness,  settled  down  into 
the  dull  glowing  shimmer,  which  must,  he  thought,  kindle 
to  everything,  if  one  could  but  see,  in  its  degree,  but  for 
him  so  rarely  seemed  to  flame  out  of  their  grave  fire. 

It  was  an  effort  for  him  to  remark  so  much,  and  he  was 
conscious  of  the  unfamiliarity  of  the  scrutiny  while  he  made 


316  STILL  LIFE 

it.  Somehow  he  had  accepted  Anne  as  a  whole  person, 
with  whom  he  was  sure,  not  by  reason  of  his  knowledge  of 
her,  but  of  his  trust  in  her.  When  Miss  Etheredge  thus 
revealed  to  him  something  of  Anne,  he  felt  that  he  had 
been  blind.  He  felt  more  strongly  than  ever  before  that 
she  inscrutably  enclosed  him,  stretching  beyond  his  know- 
ledge on  every  side.  Miss  Etheredge  was  infinitely  easier. 
He  was  less  secure  with  her — if  he  knew  her  more,  he  would 
be  less  secure  still — but  there  were  moments  when  he 
thought  that  he  could  dominate  her  more  completely. 
Her  secret  was  so  palpably  there,  indeed  so  palpably 
defended  against  him,  that  it  could  not  exceed  his  know- 
ledge. He  wanted  to  know  it.  Obscurely  he  felt  that  the 
knowledge  would  be  a  gain  to  his  resources  of  power. 

"  Yes,  I  wish  I  knew  you,"  said  Miss  Etheredge  to  Anne, 
after  a  silence.  "  But  you'd  be  very  hard  to  get  at  ... 
perhaps  you're  like  me." 

The  words  came  oddly  to  Dennis  after  his  thoughts. 
He  had  hardly  suspected  Miss  Etheredge  would  be  at  a 
loss,  or  would  confess  it,  if  she  were. 

Wauchope  rose  abruptly  from  the  discussion.  "  Perhaps 
it  doesn't  matter  very  much  anyway.  ..." 

"  If  these  things  don't  matter,  what  the  hell  does  ?  " 
asked  Ramsay,  half  laughing.  ..."  Everything  else  is 
quite  straightforward,  once  you've  got  the  general  hang 
of  it,  and  an  idea  to  go  on  with  yourself." 

"  But  we  all  envy  you,  Bill — all  of  us." 

"  Even  I  don't  find  it  all  so  simple,"  said  Maurice. 

"  That's  only  because  you've  not  got  the  hang  of  it  yet. 
People  make  an  enormous  fuss  about  life.  It's  only  senti- 
mentality. I  don't  know  why  they  should  like  to  think 
they've  got  an  impossible  row  to  hoe,  but  they  do.  You've 
only  got  to  wait  for  your  idea.  ..." 

"  It's  too  damnably  true.  Think  of  the  time  you  can 
spend  waiting,"  said  Wauchope. 

"  Oh,  but  you've  got  such  a  silly  idea  of  your  own 
importance,  A.  S.,  not  you  only,  but  everybody  almost. 


STILL  LIFE  317 

You're  never  content  to  find  an  idea  for  yourself.  You 
want  one  that'll  save  the  world.  It's  no  good — one  of 
these  Christian  ideas.  The  world  never  will  be  saved — 
and  it'd  be  a  rotten  place  if  it  were.  I  think  I  must  have 
been  born  with  the  sentimentality  knocked  out  of  me." 

"  I  think  you're  very  wise,  Bill,"  said  Wauchope,  with 
sudden  seriousness.  "...  But  what  I  really  came  for 
were  those  books  you  said  Fernandez  brought  here.  I'll 
want  them  if  I'm  going  away.  ..." 

"  So  you're  going  away,  Mr.  Wauchope,"  said  Miss 
Etheredge. 

He  turned  to  her  and  bowed  slightly. 

"  Not  going  to  leave  Netta  behind,  surely  ? "  she 
pursued. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  as 
having  pondered  a  suggestion.  "  I  can't  discover  any  par- 
ticular reason  why  I  should  take  her.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you 
have  one  ?  "  he  added  suavely. 

"  Well — since  you  lived  off  her  good  luck,  you  might  as 
well  give  her  a  holiday  off  yours.  .  .  .  I'm  sure  she'd  enjoy 
your  company." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  he  said  reflectively.  "  You  know  so  much 
more  of  Miss  Farrell  than  I  do.  But  I'm  afraid  it  can't  be 
managed.  I'm  going  first  thing  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Most  convenient  way  of  getting  rid  of  her."  Miss 
Etheredge  was  in  her  old  attitude,  regarding  the  wall. 
The  extravagance  of  her  indifference  returned  with  the 
excited  quickening  of  her  voice. 

Wauchope  made  no  reply  to  her.  He  gathered  his  coat 
and  his  hat.  "  Get  those  books  for  me,  will  you  ?  "  he  said 
to  Ramsay.  His  action  drove  Miss  Etheredge  to  visible 
frenzy. 

"I  thought  you'd  run  away — but,  you  know,  I  can't 
hurt  you."  Each  word  had  a  peculiar  fullness,  as  though 
it  came  with  added  resonance  through  tears.  "  I  shan't 
tell  anybody  about  the  postmistress  in  Ardrothan  Street, 
or  mesmerism  a  la  carte.  It's  not  interesting  to  tell  people 


318  STILL  LIFE 

a  little  clerk's  affairs.  But  you  might  as  well  say  before 
you  go  whether  you'll  pay  her  what  you  lifted  from  her. 
I'm  interested  in  that.  Then  I  can  get  some  of  my  own 
money  back.  Don't  be  afraid.  It  won't  spoil  the  beautiful 
romantic  situation  if  you  give  her  a  thousand  francs. 
She'd  take  it  right  enough  now.  I  know  Netta.  Besides, 
it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  come  back  with  a  new  patch — 
a  nice  new  one  of  bourgeois  honesty.  I  should  love  to  see 
you  with  it  on." 

Wauchope  took  the  books  from  Ramsay,  who  stood 
looking  at  Miss  Etheredge  as  one  interrupted  in  thought. 
Wauchope  shook  hands  with  Maurice. 

"  You're  probably  far  better  off  at  the  hotel  than  at  my 
studio,"  he  said.  Maurice  admired  the  way  he  managed 
this  nervous  affair.  Then  Wauchope  bowed  his  adieu  to 
the  rest  of  the  company  and  went  out.  "  I'll  send  you  my 
address,"  he  said  to  Ramsay. 

"  You  wouldn't  believe  I  once  thought  that  that  man 
was  me  only  friend,"  said  Miss  Etheredge.  The  self- 
mockery  in  her  intonation  of  the  last  three  words  was 
palpable. 

"  That's  just  what  I  should  have  believed,"  said 
Dennis. 

It  was  a  real  glance  that  she  gave  him  in  reply.  It 
seemed  to  have  more  of  curious  apprehension  than  the 
anger  he  had  so  deliberately  courted.  Her  heavy  chin 
dropped,  while  she  looked  towards  him,  and  for  once  her 
wonderful  mouth  opened  indecisively  for  an  instant,  was 
weak  and  unlovely.  She  recovered. 

"  Yes,  Wauchope  and  Etheredge  were  a  pretty  pair 
once,  weren't  they,  Bill  ?  We  were  the  real  geniuses.  We 
told  each  other  so  often  enough.  Now  he's  got  fifty  other 
people  to  tell  him  the  same  .  .  .  but  I  bet  he  doesn't 
believe  it  quite  as  much.  I  dare  say  that's  why  he  doesn't 
call  me  one  any  more.  I  don't  know  but  I  don't  think  he 
does,  somehow.  .  .  ."  She  laughed.  "  He's  a  highly 
superior  person,  now.  ...  He  doesn't  invite  everyone  to 


STILL  LIFE  319 

see  how  he  can  hypnotise  Netta  now.  .  .  .  But  he  is  very 
proud  of  himself  when  he  can  get  her  into  his  studio  with- 
out anybody  knowing.  .  .  .  Yes,  it's  very  important  for 
him  to  keep  on  the  right  side  of  Netta.  ...  He  has  to 
wait  till  my  lady  makes  some  remark  about  him,  so  that 
he  can  know  something  about  himself.  He  can  carry  on 
with  that  for  a  fortnight.  I  should  think  that  Netta  and 
I,  between  us,  we  made  him,  that  way.  Then  he  gets 
frightened  that  we  should  know  too  much,  more  than  he 
can  understand  himself. 

"  Oh,  he's  frightened  of  Netta,  I  can  tell  you ;  but  he 
can't  quite  do  without  her,  for  all  that.  .  .  .  Sometimes 
he'd  murder  her  for  what  she  says  about  him,  but  he — 
he'd  never  murder  anybody.  I  remember  when  he  first 
came  to  me  and  said  :  '  Netta's  a  great  woman.'  He 
wouldn't  say  that  now — but  he  believes  it.  It  frightens 
him  because  she  laughs  at  him.  He's  in  a  holy  terror  of 
finding  out  that  there's  nothing  inside  at  all,  only  a  lot  of 
little  tricks  he's  picked  up.  He's  clever  enough  to  pick 
them  up  better  than  anybody,  and  he  still  goes  on  learning 
them.  I  don't  envy  him  when  he  finds  out  that  there's 
nothing  inside  at  all.  The  funny  thing  is  that  he'll  find  it 
out  just  when  they  give  him  a  last  dose  of  morphia  for  a 
painless  exit.  .  .  .  I'll  have  to  draw  him  then.  It'll  make 
a  nice  little  picture,  call  it  '  The  Last  Patch.'  Netta  will 
see  the  joke.  Lord,  that's  another  drawing.  Netta  ex- 
plaining the  picture  to  Wauchope.  '  Etheredge,  you're  a 
great  woman.'  That's  the  one  thing  I've  really  got.  You'll 
have  to  see  they  put  it  on  my  tombstone,  Bill.  '  Wauchope 
was  afraid  of  me.' 

"  No  wonder  people  hate  me,  is  it,  Mrs.  Cradock  ?  But 
it  don't  matter.  It's  something,  after  all,  to  be  really 
hated  by  everyone  you  ever  knew.  It  makes  things 
exciting  when  you  know  that  every  time  you  come  into  a 
party  it  stops  like  dead.  It  might  be  all  right  if  there  was 
always  a  party  where  you  could  turn  up.  ...  By  Jove, 
I  feel  I  could  work  now.  '  The  Last  Patch.'  I  shall  be  at 


320  STILL  LIFE 

that  all  night.  That's  an  idea,  isn't  it,  Bill  ?  I  ought  to 
make  something  of  that,  oughtn't  I  ?  " 

"  I  should  rather  think  so,"  said  Ramsay,  with  convic- 
tion. 

"  But  Bill's  had  enough  just  now.  Quite  enough  for 
one  little  tea-party.  .  .  .  But  I  am  amusing,  aren't  I  ?  " 

Miss  Etheredge  got  up.  She  stood  easily  massive, 
fronting  him  as  in  a  challenge  to  a  fight.  She  seemed  to 
slouch,  without  moving.  So  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 
Before  he  took  it,  "  Oh,  I'm  forgetting,"  she  said,  with  the 
forcible  drawl  which  was  natural  to  her  quieter  moments. 
"  I  lose  my  party  manners  after  I've  been  talking  to  the 
mirror  for  a  fortnight.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you're  coming,  too — 
or  shall  I  say  good-bye  ?  " 

In  answer  Anne  had  risen  and  already  shaken  hands 
with  Ramsay. 

"  When  shall  we  see  you  again  ?  "  asked  Maurice, 
"  Can't  we  have  dinner  together  ?  " 

It  was  arranged  for  the  morrow.  They  would  go 
together  to  a  cafe  afterwards. 

They  came  into  the  street  together.  Miss  Etheredge 
walked  in  front  with  Anne. 

"  I  can  spoil  things  properly,  can't  I  ?  "  she  said,  emptily 
laughing  to  cover  her  seriousness. 

"  It  depends  what  you  mean  by  spoil." 

''  You  mean  I  gave  you  one  side  show  instead  of 
another  ?  " 

Anne  was  suddenly  angry.  "If  you  like,"  she  said 
shortly. 

Miss  Etheredge  looked  on  the  ground ;  as  she  slowly 
walked  her  heavy  body  swung  round  from  side  to  side. 
Dennis,  regarding  her  from  behind,  wondered  whether, 
had  he  not  heard  her  speak  and  seen  her  face,  he  would 
have  recognised  her  now  for  what  he  did,  a  woman  apart 
from  her  kind.  Beside  hers,  Anne's  slim  body,  apparent 
through  the  squared  coat  by  the  perceptible  motion  which 
she  gave  to  each  little  sliding  step,  as  though  she  were 


STILL  LIFE  321 

treading  a  secure  and  invisible  wire,  seemed  again  girlish. 
Anne  was  somehow  so  bewilderingly  virgin.  A  certain 
naiveness  in  what  he  knew  was  the  perfection  of  her  move- 
ment, recalled  to  his  mind  unsophisticated  pictures,  always 
of  the  Virgin,  and  always  pictures.  Miss  Etheredge,  by 
contrast,  had  a  heavy  earth-born  sensuality  in  her  gait.  His 
mind,  ordinarily  unimaginative  of  physical  things,  fastened 
upon  the  vision  of  her  large,  slow-swinging  breasts.  It  was 
a  strange  tweak  for  his  vision,  and  he  could  not  forget  it. 

"  She  is  wonderful,  though,"  said  Maurice  unexpectedly. 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  Dennis. 

"  Why,  Miss  Etheredge.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  ... 
She  depresses  me  terribly,"  he  added. 

"  It  wouldn't  take  you  very  long  to  hate  me,  would  it  ?  " 
said  Miss  Etheredge  to  Anne. 

"  Something  else  would  come  first,  I  know." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  should  hate  myself  for  being  concerned  about  you. 
.  .  .  You'd  make  it  intolerable,  by  letting  yourself  down 
too  often.  .  .  .  That's  if  I  did  hate  myself.  I  very  seldom 
do,  very  seldom." 

"  You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal  about  yourself.  It's 
very  queer  for  a  woman  ;  but  you  don't  seem  to  me  very 
female,  somehow.  There's  something  in  you  like  there  is 
in  Netta."  She  groped  perceptibly  for  a  word.  "  Un- 
suppressed  ...  I  suppose  it  would  be.  Nothing  with  a 
lid  on,  screwed  up.  .  .  .  But  you  do  know  a  lot  about 
yourself,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Not  very  much — not  even  whether  what  you  just  said 
is  true." 

The  street  turned  suddenly.  Anne  found  herself  before 
an  unexpected  square.  On  the  far  side  heavy  steam  trams 
rumbled  distantly  down  the  sloping  road  and  disappeared 
in  a  vista  of  tall  houses  and  little  trees.  Another  climbed, 
urging  upwards  its  rigid  frame,  noisily  shaken  by  the 
laborious  pantings  to  which  it  could  not  yield .  A  cold 
grey  stole  over  the  sky,  like  a  creeping  film  of  ice,  narrowing 


322  STILL  LIFE 

the  last  transparent  blue.  The  air  was  still  warm,  but  the 
distances  were  clear  and  chilly.  Even  the  vague,  black 
with  gathered  trees,  into  which  the  upward  road  entered 
and  was  lost,  was  indistinguishably  clear,  as  something 
seen  through  gross  thick  glass.  One  spot  of  hazardous 
warmth  maintained  itself  where  an  early  lamp  shone 
through  trees  near  by,  and  diffused  its  radiance  through 
the  leaves  into  gold  and  green,  infinitely  repeated,  and 
growing  stronger,  as  the  last  direct  light  climbed  slowly 
out  of  the  sky. 

Right  across  the  square,  as  they  waited  on  the  pavement 
edge  a  row  of  lights  kindled  along  the  parapet  of  a  low 
building,  making  coloured  posters  dimly  visible  on  the 
wall  below.  The  tall  houses  that  flanked  it,  loomed  in  the 
light  from  large  to  gigantic  and  unscalable. 

"  I  suppose  I  had  better  be  going  back  to  my  garret," 
said  Miss  Etheredge. 

"  Do  you  not  come  our  way  ?  "  asked  Anne. 

"  No  .  .  .  but  you  are  coming  to-morrow,  aren't  you  ?  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  haven't  given  you  the  address.  23  rue  Sevigne — 
you'll  remember  that.  ...  I  think  I  should  like  to  ...  no, 
I'd  better  be  going  home  ...  do  penance  for  this  afternoon. 
Good-bye,  Mrs.  Cradock.  Don't  forget  to-morrow,  what- 
ever you  do.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Beauchamp.  I'm  sure  I've 
shocked  you,  but  you'd  better  come — see  the  beast  in  its 
own  haunts.  Good-bye,  Temple.  You're  too  interested 
in  your  silly  theories.  .  .  .  Are  you  coming  too  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  and  then  hesitated.  "  I'm  not 
quite  sure.  I  may  have  something  to  do." 

"  Not  going  to  stand  sentry  at  the  Parthenon.  ...  I 
wouldn't.  .  .  ." 

They  watched  for  the  little  way  before  she  turned  the 
corner.  Even  when  she  had  disappeared,  Maurice  still 
stared  at  the  corner.  Anne  and  Dennis  moved  away 
towards  a  cab.  "  Come  on,  Morry,"  said  Anne. 

He  ran  the  few  steps  after  them.  "  That's  not  the  way 
to  the  rue  SeVigne,"  he  said. 


STILL  LIFE  323 

"  People  have  been  known  to  buy  things  on  their  way 
home,"  said  Anne. 

"  Yea,"  said  Maurice  absently. 

Dennis  addressed  Anne.  "  Do  you  mind  if  we  walk  part 
of  the  way  home  ?  I  feel  I  would  rather  walk  than  drive. 
.  .  .  But  perhaps  you're  tired  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  and  they  began  to  descend  the  slope. 
Only  at  long  intervals  did  any  word  pass  between  them, 
and  those  that  were  spoken  seemed  to  hang  low  as  a  sound 
carried  over  water,  reluctantly  uttered  and  moving  reluc- 
tantly. Each  in  his  measure  was  heavy  and  depressed. 
So  soon  as  they  began  to  walk  Anne  felt  the  depression 
gather  into  a  physical  fatigue.  The  joints  of  her  arms 
relaxed  and  were  powerless.  Maurice  was  continually  con- 
fronted by  pictures  of  himself  and  Etheredge  together 
when  he  used  to  visit  her  three  years  before.  She  would 
sit  in  her  littered  room  and  weep,  and  while  she  wept  had 
laughed  and  said  to  him  :  "  But  you're  too  young,  Temple. 
You  are  so  very  young."  He  had  accepted  it,  and  even 
been  glad.  It  opened  broad  vistas  of  life  to  him.  The 
remembered  tone  of  her  voice  brought  him  to  a  discovery. 
She  had  been  glad,  too.  Perhaps,  even  she  had  been  half 
in  love  with  him.  Something  began  to  burn  tightly  within 
him,  as  though  neither  smoke  could  escape  nor  flame 
breathe,  at  the  thought.  He  felt  again  the  firm  warmth 
of  her  massive  body  as  he  had  put  his  arm  round  her  in  an 
instinctive,  frightened  attempt  to  comfort  her.  He  wished 
he  had  kissed  her.  He  desired  to  kiss  her  now.  Anne  must 
surely  know  what  he  was  feeling.  Apprehensive  even  of 
the  new  colour  that  must  run  in  his  cheeks,  the  excited 
shortness  with  which  his  breath  must  be  taken,  he  started 
as  if  he  had  been  discovered,  when  Dennis  spoke. 

"  I  must  be  clean  off  things.  I  suppose  this  road  and 
this  weather  are  rather  wonderful.  They  don't  seem  even 
real  to  me.  .  .  .  The  air's  fresh  enough,  though.  ..." 

"  I'm  very  tired,"  said  Anne.  "  I  think  I'll  drive.  I 
can  rest  a  little  before  dinner." 


324  STILL  LIFE 

"  Don't  let  us  have  dinner  at  the  hotel,"  urged  Dennis. 
"  We'll  go  somewhere  where  there's  any  amount  of  music, 
plenty  of  life."  He  laughed  at  his  own  phrase.  "  What 
do  you  say  to  that  ?  I've  got  plenty  of  money — for  once 
in  a  way." 

"  Yes,"  said  Maurice  eagerly.  "  I  can't  stand  the  idea 
of  the  hotel  to-night." 

"  We'll  go  to  Montmartre,"  said  Anne.  "  You  won't 
drive  with  me,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I'd  rather  walk,"  said  Dennis. 

"  You'll  have  to  show  him  the  way,"  said  Anne  to  Maurice. 
"  Au  revoir."  She  hailed  a  fiacre  and  drove  away. 

"  We  aren't  very  bright,  are  we  ?  "  said  Maurice. 

"  Bright !  Good  God  !  Your  Miss  Etheredge  has  fairly 
ta,ken  it  out  of  me.  ..."  Then  they  walked  on. 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  is  this  Wauchope  ?  "  asked  Dennis. 

"  I  don't  know  any  more  about  him  than  you  do.  I  only 
met  him  to-day.  I  used  to  hear  them  talk  about  him. 
He's  supposed  to  be  very  clever.  .  .  .  He's  been  a  friend  of 
Eamsay's  for  a  long  while. . . .  Why  ?  Did  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  He  interested  me.  How  much  of  that  tale  that  Miss 
Etheredge  told  was  true — you  heard  it,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  More  or  less.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  true.  Most 
likely  not.  She's  got  her  own  way  of  looking  at  things. ..." 

"Yes,  but  there  was  something  about  the  story  that 
made  it  feel  devilishly  near  being  true.  I  can  imagine  a 
man  being  like  that,  depending  on  women  to  know  himself, 
and  frightened  that  they  should  know  too  much.  .  .  .  You 
don't  know  this  Netta  either  ?  " 

"  No.  ...  I've  heard  of  her.  That's  all."  There  was  a 
shade  of  embarrassment  in  Maurice's  voice,  when  he  asked, 
"  What  do  you  think  of  Etheredge  ?  " 

"  She's  extraordinary.  I've  never  seen  a  woman  like 
her.  She  bowls  me  over.  .  .  .  She  comes  clean  outside  my 
idea  of  a  woman.  One  moment  I  thought  what  on  earth 
is  she  doing,  painting  and  messing  about  here  ;  she  ought 
to  be  mixed  up  in  some  terrific  drama  of  the  primitive 


STILL  LIFE  325 

passions,  wherever  those  things  happen.  But  really  it's 
just  because  she  is  mixed  up  with  all  this  talking  and 
painting  that  she  is  what  she  is." 

"  I  think  she's  wonderful,"  said  Maurice,  as  though  he 
were  assenting  to  Dennis's  opinion. 

"  Let's  have  a  drink.  There's  a  cafe  down  by  the  river, 
I  suppose." 

"  Dozens." 

"  Go  to  the  best.  There's  no  hurry.  I'm  not  bursting 
for  food,  are  you  ? — and  I'm  sure  Anne's  not." 

At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  they  turned  into  a  cafe  on  the 
quay.  Dennis  ordered  an  absinthe.  "  I  don't  think  I've 
ever  asked  for  the  stuff  of  my  own  free  will  before."  Maurice 
followed  suit. 

"  I  didn't  get  very  much  out  of  the  couple  of  letters  you 
sent  me,"  said  Dennis,  "  but  I  gathered  you've  been  having 
a  good  time." 

"  Yes,  we  did  have  a  wonderful  week.  .  .  .  Up  to  and  in- 
cluding yesterday.  I  don't  feel  quite  so  cheerful  now, 
though." 

"  It  was  not  my  arrival  ?  " 

"  Good  Lord,  no  !  It  must  be  going  to  the  old  places, 
seeing  the  old  people.  We  haven't  been  this  side  of  the 
river  before — except  one  afternoon  at  the  Zoo.  .  .  I've  a 
curious,  rotten  feeling,  that  nothing's  fixed.  ...  I  feel  now 
that  someone  might  come  up  behind  me  and  take  this  over- 
coat off  my  back,  suddenly — that  it's  not  quite  really  there." 

"  Has  Anne  got  the  same  feeling  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so."  He  paused  to  review  the  evidence 
of  the  day.  "  I  don't  know  though.  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised. These  aren't  her  old  places.  But  she  may  get  it 
off  me.  Perhaps  it's  in  the  air.  It  may  be  just  seeing 
Etheredge.  She  always  has  had  that  sort  of  effect  on  me." 

"  I  can  understand  that." 

"...  You  remember  all  I  was  saying  to  you  in  the  hotel 
before  Anne  came  in  this  afternoon — about  being  bursting 
to  write,  and  get  something  done  ?  "  Dennis  nodded. 


326  STILL  LIFE 

"  Well,  that's  all  rot.  I  haven't  got  anything  to  say — 
nothing  at  all.  The  only  thing  that's  any  real  good  to  me 
is  another  week  like  the  last.  I  forgot  myself  completely. 
If  I  can't  forget  myself,  I'm  hopeless — like  I  am  now.  .  .  . 
I've  an  idea  I've  got  the  makings  of  a  Wauchope  in  me." 

"  That's  curious.  .  .  .  I've  been  thinking  exactly  the 
same — of  myself." 

"  I  wonder  who's  right.  We  can't  very  well  both  be. 
I'm  not  very  much  like  you. ...  I  wish  to  God,  I'd  managed 
to  stand  up  to  something.  I  think  if  I'd  really  seen  some- 
thing through,  I  might  have  been  all  right.  .  .  .  If  I'd  really 
done  what  I  wanted  to,  without  waiting  to  be  frightened 
or  ashamed.  As  it  is  I  get  a  double  dose.  First  I'm 
frightened  and  ashamed,  then  I'm  frightened  and  ashamed 
for  having  been  frightened  and  ashamed.  .  .  .  That  kind  of 
thing  could  go  on  for  ever  and  ever  like  one  of  those  things 
in  algebra.  I  suppose  the  only  reason  that  it  doesn't  is  that 
people  have  to  go  to  sleep  sometimes.  Just  now  I  feel  I 
should  like  to  go  to  sleep  all  the  while. 

"  Do  you  ever  have  the  idea,"  Maurice  went  on,  "  that 
it  would  have  been  a  damned  sight  better  if  you'd  never 
been  allowed  to  grow  up — if  you'd  been  stuck  in  some 
garden  of  Eden  ?  There's  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  truth  in  that 
story,  I  think.  Here  I  am  twenty-four,  absolutely  tortured 
by  the  thought  of  all  the  people  there  are  roaming  about 
the  world,  whom  I've  hurt  in  some  way  or  in  another. 
They  give  me  the  shudders  when  I  think  about  them. 
Twenty-four — that's  about  four  years,  five  at  most,  of 
effective  life.  What  the  devil  will  it  be  like  when  I'm 
forty-eight  I  wonder  ?  The  funniest  part  of  it  is  that  the 
reason  why  I  hurt  all  these  people  is  that  I  haven't  got  the 
courage  not  to.  If  I'd  just  told  them  that  I  was — well,  just 
what  I  am — quite  early  on,  it  would  have  been  all  right. 
But  I  can  never  do  that.  Of  course,  it's  bound  to  come 
out,  sooner  or  later,  and  that's  where  the  trouble  begins. 
I  believe  they  forget  about  it.  I  don't.  .  .  .  But  even  if  I 
did  tell  them  about  myself  at  the  beginning,  they  wouldn't 


STILL  LIFE  327 

believe  it — not  a  word.  I  can  see  myself  telling  my  mother 
that  I  knew  I  was  going  to  make  a  mess  of  everything.  .  .  . 
No,  there's  nothing  to  be  done." 

"  Except  not  make  a  mess  of  it,"  said  Dennis. 

Maurice  looked  at  him  with  a  disappointed  surprise. 

"  You  think  that's  rather  cheap.  I  thought  so  myself 
before.  We're  both  sentimentalists,  of  different  kinds  and 
degrees.  But  why  not  really  be  a  sentimentalist — follow 
every  sentimental  impulse  ?  " 

"  If  you've  got  the  strength  to  do  that,"  said  Maurice, 
"  it  seems  to  me  you've  got  the  strength  not  to  be  senti- 
mental. I  don't  believe  you  are,  yourself,  anyhow." 

"  No — perhaps  not,"  said  Dennis  thoughtfully. 

"  If  I  once  begin  to  think  about  myself  really,  I  can't 
see  where  my  sentimentality  stops.  It's  mixed  up  with 
everything  I  do,  somehow.  It's  not  only  that  I  can't  end 
anything,  but  I  can't  even  believe  that  anything  is  going 
to  end.  At  least  I  can  believe  it,  I  suppose,  but  I  simply 
won't  realise  it.  I  don't  dare  to.  For  instance,  when  you 
go  away  again.  You'll  have  to  sometime,  I  suppose  ?  I 
simply  can't  face  the  idea  of  saying  good-bye  to  you,  and 
yet  I  can't  get  it  out  of  the  back  of  my  mind.  That  a  thing 
should  be  over  and  done  with  for  ever — it  almost  makes 
me  freeze  with  horror. . . .  Do  you  think  Anne's  like  that  ?  " 

"  Anne  ?    Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  " 

"  I  only  wondered." 

"...  My  notion  of  her  is  that  she's  different.  She's  older. 
I  think  she's  got  an  ideal.  Perhaps  that's  what  makes  her 
so  different  from  anyone  else.  If  things  don't  come  up  to 
her  ideal,  she  would  let  them  go  without  a  word.  She 
always  has  a  standard  to  judge  things  by.  I'm  sure  of  that. 
Whether  it's  an  ideal  that  has  never  been  realised,  or 
whether  it's  some  experience  in  the  past,  I  can't  say.  That's 
my  notion  of  her,  anyhow.  And  I  may  be  wrong.  I  don't 
pretend  to  understand  her." 

"  Do  you  notice  that  she's  changed  at  all — since  we  were 
in  Sussex  together  ?  " 


328  STILL  LIFE 

"  I've  hardly  seen  her.  .  .  .  She's  so  curiously  sure  of  her- 
self. Why,  do  you  find  she's  changed  ?  " 

"  She  was  wonderful  last  week.  It  isn't  as  though  we 
did  anything  in  particular.  ...  I  don't  believe  it's  much 
good  forgetting  yourself.  It  lets  you  down  with  a  crash. 
The  funny  part  of  it  is  that  you  don't  know  when  you  have 
been  let  down — not  till  sometime  afterwards."  He  gulped 
down  the  rest  of  his  absinthe.  "  Etheredge  does  take  it 
out  of  you,"  he  said. 

They  walked  across  the  bridges  home  in  silence. 

"  It's  a  quarter- past  seven,"  said  Dennis,  as  they  entered 
the  hotel.  "  If  we're  ready  by  eight  that  ought  to  give  us 
plenty  of  time.  I'll  come  to  your  sitting-room  then.  You 
tell  Anne." 

Anne  lay  on  the  couch  in  her  bedroom.  To  Maurice's 
apprehensive  vision  there  was  something  aloof  and  resigned 
in  her  attitude.  She  must  be  thinking  her  own  thoughts 
alone.  He  had  expected  it,  yet  the  reality  was  far  more 
potent  than  the  thing  he  had  expected.  He  was  afraid  of 
Anne  thinking  her  own  thoughts  apart  from  him,,  for  thus, 
it  seemed  to  him,  she  could  see  him  more  clearly.  Close  to 
her  he  was  hidden.  But  thought  and  calculation  vanished 
into  impulse  as  he  looked  at  her  lying  on  the  couch.  He 
knelt  on  the  floor  beside  her  and  held  her  tight  in  his  arms, 
his  face  bent  over  hers. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Anne  ?  " 

She  raised  herself  slightly  and  looked  straight  into  his 
eyes. 

"  Why,  do  I  look  as  though  anything  were  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  thought  so.  You  do  look  different  from  what  you 
did  this  morning." 

"  And  so  do  you.  .  .  .  But  I  think  I'm  tired.  ..." 

"  Is  that  all  really  ?  " 

"  No.  I've  been  thinking  how  very  much  I'm  like  Miss 
Etheredge,  and  wondering  what  it  is  that  keeps  me  from 
being  quite  like  her." 

"  How  do  you  mean — like  Etheredge  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  329 

"  When  you're  lonely,  things  turn — to  dust  and  ashes. 
...  I'm  too  old  to  be  lonely." 

"  But  you  aren't  lonely,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  said.  "  That's  why  I  can  talk  so  much 
about  loneliness." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that What  about  me  ?  " 

Anne  made  no  reply  by  word.  She  looked  at  him  so 
intensely,  with  a  half -smile  on  her  lips,  that  he  felt  that  she 
had  taken  his  words  and  flung  them  away.  Suddenly,  she 
clasped  him  about  the  neck,  and  kissed  his  face,  passion- 
ately, feverishly.  She  sprang  upon  her  feet  and  clasped 
him  tumultuously  again. 

;'  That's  over,"  she  said.    "  Now  for  Montmartre." 

She  bent  down  before  the  mirror  and  rubbed  her  face, 
holding  her  big  powder  puff  in  her  two  hands  like  a  towel. 

While  they  were  dressing,  and  Anne  was  still  at  the 
mirror,  rouging  her  lips,  she  surprised  him  by  saying,  in 
little  spasms  of  words,  "  A  Montmartre  comme  les  Mont- 
martroises.  .  .  .  Miss  Etheredge  is  everything.  . .  .  That  you 
told  me  and  more.  .  . .  But  you  never  told  me.  .  .  .  That  she 
was  in  love  with  you. ...  Or  had  been That  was  curious." 

Maurice  was  sharpening  his  razor.  His  face  was  thick 
with  soap. 

"  Why  is  it  curious  ?  "  he  answered.    "  I  never  knew  it." 

"  No,"  she  said.  "...  I  don't  believe  you  would." 
After  a  long  pause  while  she  delicately  pencilled  her  eye- 
brows, she  returned  with  the  rouge  to  her  mouth.  It 
might  almost  have  been  that  she  sought  the  staccato  it 
gave  to  her  words. 

"  But  you  do  know  now.  .  .  .  But  it  is  rather  strange.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  think. .  .  .  That  all  your  tragedies  .  .  .  happen  . . . 
while  you're  shaving  .  .  .  ? "  They  turned  together  to  face 
each  other.  The  colour  of  Anne's  black  eyebrows  and 
reddened  lips  made  her  strange  to  him. 

"  Why,  you  look  quite  different,  Anne." 

"A  Montmartre  comme  les  Montmartroises,"  she  said 
again. 


CHAPTER  V 

THEY  went  up  the  generously  carpeted  stairs  of  the  Cabou- 
lot.  Dennis  led  the  way.  AJI  obstinate  determination  had 
taken  hold  of  him.  It  carried  him  unbending  through  a 
dispute  with  an  unsatisfied  cabdriver,  which  would  at  any 
other  time  have  driven  him  to  exasperation.  Anne 
followed  his  long  strides  at  a  run,  leaping  lightly  from 
one  stair  to  another,  laughing  to  herself,  excited  and 
irresponsible.  She  knew  that  her  evident  delight  estranged 
Maurice,  who  kept  pace  with  her ;  and  she  saw  the 
nervous  hunger  in  his  eyes  when  he  said  to  her,  "You 
aren't  so  tired  now  ?  "  ;  but  she  could  not  feel  sorry 
for  him.  Her  own  flight  was  not  steady  enough  to  bear 
his  weight.  She  was  careful  of  her  own  exultation,  for  she 
knew  it  might  easily  be  brought  down.  Instead  of 
responding  to  the  reproach  in  his  words,  she  ran  yet 
faster  up  the  stairs  before  him,  turning  her  head  to 
say  : 

"  No,  I've  forgotten  all  about  that  now." 

A  mildly  obsequious  patron  led  them  through  the  white 
doors.  The  suddenness  of  sound  was  unexpected.  It  set 
Anne's  wavering  blood  flowing  riotously.  She  caught  hold 
of  Dennis's  arm  and  laughed.  He  turned  about  at  the 
touch  and  looked  at  her  ;  a  tightness  in  him,  that  had  held 
his  muscles  fixed,  loosened  at  the  sight  of  Anne,  and 
of  the  bright  dancing-room.  He  smiled. 

"  Thank  God  we're  here,"  he  said. 

The  patron  waited  while  they  chose  a  table.  Dennis 
could  not  attend  to  the  choice.  His  wandering  eyes 
vaguely  watched  two  women,  who  danced,  pressed  close 
together,  and  brushed  his  coat  with  their  skirts.  One  was 

330 


STILL  LIFE  331 

tall,  with  flaxen  hair,  dressed  like  a  scarlet  doll.  She  sang 
raucously  but  with  enjoyment,  as  with  quick  decisive  steps 
she  backed  before  her  partner  down  the  room.  The  other, 
dark-haired,  with  a  hooped  dancing-skirt,  leant  her  head 
sideways  against  her  partner's  bosom,  and  laughed  for 
applause. 

"  If  monsieur  would  only  choose.  ..." 

Dennis  turned  to  consult  Anne.  She  was  gone  to  disrobe. 
"  This  will  do,  won't  it  ?  "  he  said  to  Maurice,  and  pointed 
to  a  table  at  the  end  of  the  room.  "  Anything,"  said 
Maurice. 

They  sat  down  and  awaited  Anne.  Maurice  idly  re- 
garded the  waiter's  hands  as  they  prepared  the  table,  and 
shivered  a  little.  You  had  to  be  in  the  mood  for  this  kind 
of  thing,  he  thought.  He  shifted  his  chair  to  the  side  of 
the  table  so  that  he  could  see  the  room.  The  movement, 
the  curious  women,  some  few  bored,  but  most,  naturally 
breathing  their  natural  air,  began  to  interest  him,  yet  he 
was  completely  outside  it  all.  The  noisy  music  of  the  red- 
coated  players,  the  swirl  of  faces  that  he  could  not  arrest, 
lulled  his  eyes  and  ears.  He  was  glad  to  be  there  and  to 
have  something  to  look  at.  But  he  was  out  of  it  all,  not 
definitely  but  uneasily,  as  though  at  any  moment  he  might 
in  part  be  carried  away.  He  would  have  rejoiced  had  he 
thought  he  would  be  whirled  into  it  wholly,  if  he  could 
drink  himself  drunk  enough  to  go  away  with  the  dark- 
haired  dancing  girl,  who  now  sat  sideways  on  a  chair  look- 
ing towards  them,  pouting  and  drumming  with  her  toes 
on  the  floor,  with  a  nonchalant  gaiety  that  (so  he  assured 
himself)  did  not  deceive  him  for  a  moment.  He  would  be 
so  kind  towards  her.  It  would  be  an  unfamiliar  experience 
for  her.  He  knew  he  would  never  be  drunk  enough  for 
that, 

"  We  want  something  to  drink,  immediately,"  said 
Dennis,  pointing  out  the  champagne  on  the  card. 

"  That's  good,"  said  Maurice.  It  was  a  good  thing  to 
drink  anyhow.  His  glance  rested  upon  the  black-haired 


332  STILL  LIFE 

girl.  She  looked  thin  and  tired.  That  was  only  the  colour 
on  her  eyes,  of  course,  but  it  would  be  worth  while  to  be 
her  lover.  She  might  be  quite  happy  with  him.  It  was 
silly  that  he  could  not  do  it  just  because  he  was  in  love 
with  Anne.  Why  should  it  make  any  difference  to  that  ? 
If  only  something  would  happen  and  set  him  free,  just  for 
a  little  while,  and  he  could  come  back  to  her  afterwards. 
He  did  not  dare  to  fix  the  thought,  but  he  wished  that 
something  would  happen. 

"  Here's  Anne,"  said  Dennis. 

She  seemed  to  be  unfamiliarly  tall  and  languid  as  she 
danced  the  last  few  steps  towards  the  table.  Her  arms 
were  covered  tightly  by  the  long  sleeves  of  a  white  blouse 
that  poured  in  a  cascade  of  frill  over  her  hands.  She 
sat  down  quickly  at  Dennis's  side  and  looked  at  Maurice, 
resting  her  chin  upon  her  hands. 

"I'm  very  happy,"  she  said. 

To  Maurice  her  happiness  was  foreign  ;  because  it  was 
foreign,  he  thought  it  was  forced.  He  even  detected  a  note 
of  challenge  in  her  words.  The  idea  that  they  were  com- 
pletely apart  swept  into  him  like  a  cold  and  desolating 
mist.  In  Anne's  eyes  as  they  still  regarded  him  he  saw  the 
knowledge  of  his  own  thoughts. 

"  I  can't  quite  get  used  to  you  like  that,"  he  said. 

"  No  ?  "  she  said  indifferently,  then  she  turned  to  Dennis. 
"  Am  I  so  terribly  unfamiliar  ?  " 

''  You're  different  but  perfectly  recognisable,"  he  re- 
plied, and  stared  as  he  had  been  staring  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room,  where  in  a  pause  of  the  music  a  woman  with  a 
shock  of  red  hair,  in  a  dead  black-coat  and  skirt,  danced 
an  amazing  pas  seul.  Her  concentration  upon  her  perform- 
ance seemed  occasionally  to  snap,  and  her  tenseness  to 
escape  in  sudden  low  hoots  of  hard  laughter. 

"  I  think  she's  wonderful,"  said  Anne.  She  drained  her 
glass  of  champagne.  The  music  began  again,  quick  Ameri- 
can music  of  the  modern  sort.  It  fired  Dennis  with  a 
sudden  determination.  "Let  you  and  I  dance,  Anne." 


STILL  LIFE  333 

She  stood  up  and  waited  for  him  while  he  drank.  "  Order 
supper,"  he  said  to  Maurice. 

For  all  his  determinations,  Dennis  was  not  ungraceful. 
The  discipline  he  put  upon  himself  was  not  apparent  in  his 
movements,  which,  though  heavy,  were  yet  measured. 
He  held  Anne  lightly.  Her  eyes  were  shut  while  she  sang 
the  words  to  the  American  tune,  and  her  whole  body 
swayed. 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  could  lose  myself  like  you,"  said 
Dennis  to  her. 

Anne  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  up  at  him,  and  smiled 
so  that  Dennis  wondered  whether  she  had  lost  herself  after 
all. 

"  I  shall  have  to  get  drunk,"  he  said. 

Anne  nodded,  too  preoccupied  with  the  rhythm  of  her 
body  to  speak.  A  blonde-bearded  man,  dancing  gro- 
tesquely like  a  clumsy  wooden  doll,  collided  with  them,  and 
smiled  enthusiastically  by  way  of  apology.  With  him  he 
dragged  the  red-haired  girl.  Her  head  was  thrown  back, 
and  it  swayed  mechanically  to  her  movements.  Her  eyes 
were  shut  and  she  looked  sick. 

"  Don't  you  think  she's  wonderful  ?  "  said  Anne. 

"  I  hate  the  man,"  he  replied.  Then  he  was  disgusted 
at  his  own  sentimental  concern.  What  was  it  to  do  with 
him  if  the  blonde-bearded  man  was  abominable  ?  Then 
the  music  made  a  pleasant  rushing  noise  in  his  ears,  and 
he  was  plunged  forgetful  into  the  sense  that  he  and  Anne 
were  dancing  together. 

Maurice  watched  them.  He  admired  and  envied  them 
for  dancing  well.  He  looked  round  to  see  if  anybody  else 
was  admiring  Anne.  She  was  very  beautiful.  She  swayed 
like  the  slender  leaf  of  a  water  plant  beneath  the  stream. 
What  on  earth  had  he  to  do  with  her  now  ?  She  had 
stepped  clean  out  of  him  and  left  him  empty  ;  he  shrank 
back,  collapsed,  into  himself.  There  was  nothing  of  him- 
self except  a  few  recollections,  of  Madeleine,  of  Etheredge, 
of  Anne.  He  began  to  wonder  what  Madeleine  felt  about 


334  STILL  LIFE 

him  now.  He  remembered  how  she  had  sat  in  the  window 
of  her  room  sewing  and  had  suddenly  said  :  "  Je  crois  que 
tu  ne  m'aimes  pas,"  and  how  he  had  protested,  how  he  had 
wondered  how  a  man  would  protest  if  he  were  really  in  love. 
He  ordered  supper  as  he  had  been  told.  It  was  somehow 
pleasant  to  realise  that  it  would  cost  a  great  deal  of  money. 
He  had  fairly  bought  his  right  to  be  there,  and  he  need  feel 
no  obligation  to  become  part  of  the  entertainment,  to  do 
anything  else  than  sit  still  there  and  watch.  It  was  worth 
while  to  watch,  too.  He  was  not  at  all  miserable,  for  all 
that  he  felt  himself  alone.  He  even  enjoyed  the  warmth 
of  the  little  gushes  of  sentimental  recollection  which  burst 
into  his  mind. 

The  girl  in  the  blue  hooped  skirt  rose  from  her  chair  and 
came  towards  him.  He  saw  her  come,  but  the  idea  that 
she  was  coming  to  him  never  shaped  itself,  so  remote  was 
he,  and  it  was  with  a  little  start  of  surprise  that  he  heard 
her  say,  as  she  sat  down  on  a  chair  beside  the  table  : 
"  Monsieur  is  sad." 

He  looked  at  her.  If  her  eyes  were  dead  beneath  their 
artificial  lustre,  her  mouth  was  plainly  alive,  thin,  un- 
decided and  human.  Of  course,  she  did  not  mean  anything 
by  the  words,  but  all  the  same  he  thrilled  to  the  expression 
of  a  casual  sympathy. 

fc'  Life    is    sad,    alas,    madame,"   he    said,    and   as  he 
watched  his  fingers  flick  the  ash  off  his  cigarette  into  the 
tray,  he  smiled,  not  merely  at  his  own  sententiousness,  but 
in  delight  at  her  sympathy.    He  knew  what  she  would  say 
next.    It  was  always  disappointing,  but  then  it  was  her 
business  to  consume  champagne  at  an  inordinate  profit  to 
the  management.    It  was  his  duty  at  least  to  anticipate 
the  question  she  could  have  no  pleasure  in  asking. 
"  If  madame  would  do  us  the  pleasure.  .  .  ." 
"  Monsieur  is  not  alone  then.  .  .  .  Why  is  he  sad  ?  " 
"  Aren't  you  ever  sad,  then,  when  you  aren't  alone  ?  " 
"  Never,"  she  said  decidedly,  and  drank  the  glass  of 
champagne  he  poured  for  her,  in  emphasis  of  her  denial. 


STILL  LIFE  335 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Si,  si — but  certainly  monsieur  is  in  love.  He  has  the 
appearance.  Then  there  are  sadnesses,  I  know.  Above  all, 
seeing  monsieur  is  so  gentil." 

Maurice  knew  that  she  said  the  same  thing,  every  night, 
in  the  ordinary  way  of  business,  but  the  knowledge  was 
inactive.  He  believed  that  he  really  was  gentil,  and  he  was 
pleased  to  accept  the  tribute. 

Anne  and  Dennis  broke  off  their  dance,  though  the 
music  resumed  at  the  insistent  demand  of  the  raucous  pink 
doll.  She  danced  with  a  young  man,  whose  thin  body  and 
pale  sallow  face,  beautifully  framed  with  dead-black  hair, 
made  him  look  taller  than  he  was.  At  his  partner's  vocif- 
erous "  Bis !  "  he  smiled,  cynical  and  indulgent.  He 
laughed  outright  towards  a  woman  who  smoked  and 
watched  him  continually,  when  the  flaxen-haired  doll 
cried  to  the  chef  d'orchestre — "  But  my  baby  wishes  to 
dance  again,  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

The  chef  (Torchestre  was  deferential  then.  "  If  monsieur 
wishes  it.  .  .  ."  And  the  tune — Alexander's  Rag- time 
Band — poured  out  again. 

"  Morry's  got  someone  to  talk  to,"  said  Dennis,  as  they 
approached  the  table. 

"  So  I  see,"  said  Anne.  She  greeted  the  girl.  Anne  felt 
that  they  were  very  near  to  each  other,  the  girl  and  she. 

"  Monsieur  and  madame  are  friends  ?  "  she  said,  join- 
ing Anne  to  Maurice  by  her  glance.  "  Then  we  must  change 
places." 

She  made  her  way  for  Anne  to  sit  on  the  cushioned  seat 
against  the  wall.  Dennis  sat  next  to  Anne.  The  girl  sat 
in  a  chair  beside  Dennis. 

"  That's  better,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  said  to  Dennis.  "  I  was 
saying,"  she  went  on,  "  that  monsieur  looked  very  sad. 
Evidently  it  was  because  you  were  not  here,  madame." 

Anne  laughed.    "  So  you  think  that  was  the  reason  ?  " 

She  nodded.  "  Madame  is  beautiful  and  gentil.  Mon- 
sieur is  gentil,  ..." 


336  STILL  LIFE 

"  But  not  beautiful  ?  "  interrupted  Maurice. 

"  Si,  si."  She  looked  at  him  critically.  "  He  is  beautiful, 
is  he  not,  madame  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so."  Anne  also  looked  at  him  critically. 
For  no  reason  he  wished  she  had  decided  against  him. 

"  But  naturally  you  think  so,"  said  the  girl. 

"  It's  too  simple  altogether,"  said  Anne. 

They  began  to  eat.  They  were  hungry,  and  the  food  was 
excellent.  Maurice  had  chosen  it  on  a  simple  scheme.  He 
had  ordered  the  most  expensive  dish  in  every  course.  He 
wanted  to  spend  money,  superabundantly  to  pay  his  foot- 
ing there.  Moreover,  to  him  poised  uneasily  between  the 
past  and  the  future  in  a  present  to  which  he  was  wholly 
strange,  the  spending  of  money  came  as  a  positive  activity, 
justifying  him.  Save  that  he  had  had  a  suspicion  that  the 
waiter  would  see  through  his  method,  he  had  enjoyed  its 
exercise. 

"  Is  monsieur  another  who  is  sad  ?  "  said  the  girl  to 
Dennis. 

"  Unfortunately,  he  doesn't  know  himself."  Dennis's 
French  was  of  the  square  English  kind,  plain  and  intel- 
ligible, but  violent  and  disconcerting. 

"  That  must  be  a  terrible  sadness,"  said  the  girl  seriously. 

"  Or  terribly  amusing.  .  .  ." 

The  girl  supped  her  St.  Germain  with  application.  "  You 
find  it  so  ?  I  don't  think  I  should.  I  like  to  know  about 
myself.  I  always  know  whether  I'm  sad  or  happy." 

Dennis  was  drinking  quickly  and  his  words  became 
brusque. 

"  Tell  me  now,  are  you  sad  or  happy,  now — quite 
frankly." 

"  But  naturally  .  .  .,"  she  began. 

"  No  '  naturally,'  "  he  said.  "  One  is  never  '  naturally  ' 
happy  or  sad.  That's  only  politeness."  Dennis  glanced 
at  Anne,  and  took  hold  of  the  girl's  wrist  on  the  table. 
"  Tell  me  now,  quite  honestly."  Dennis  looked  at  Anne 
while  he  waited  for  the  answer.  Anne  watched  the  girl. 


STILL  LIFE  337 

"  I  think,"  she  said  quietly,  "  I  should  be  really  happy 
if  monsieur  were  not  hurting  my  hand." 

Dennis  let  go  of  her  wrist  quickly.  "  I  wasn't  thinking. 
You  must  forgive  me.  It  was  brutal."  Suddenly  he 
raised  her  wrist  and  bent  his  head  forward.  He  kissed  the 
faint  red  mark  his  fingers  had  left,  lowered  her  hand  to  the 
table  and  drank  again. 

The  girl  laughed  delightedly.  "  Monsieur  est  bien 
gen  til,"  she  said  and  looked  for  Anne's  assent. 

"  I  assure  you,  mademoiselle,"  said  Anne,  "  it's  the  first 
time  he's  ever  done  such  a  thing,  at  least  since  I  have 
known  him." 

"  Is  that  true  ?  "  the  girl  asked  Maurice.  He  nodded 
his  head.  "  Is  that  true  ?  "  she  turned  to  Dennis. 

"  Perhaps.    I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Probably.  .  .  ." 

"  Then,  kiss  me."  She  held  up  her  face  to  him.  Maurice 
watched  the  tautness  of  her  slender  arms  as  she  clenched 
the  chair-seat  with  her  hands.  He  would  never  have  dared 
to  kiss  her,  or  be  kissed  by  her  in  front  of  Anne.  Only  be- 
cause he  was  too  much  the  coward.  What  difference  could 
it  make  ?  Why  couldn't  he  be  free  ?  Of  course  he  would 
come  back  eventually  to  Anne  ;  but  now  he  desired  to  kiss 
that  girl,  to  be  her  lover,  only  for  a  night.  Then  he  would 
pass  on.  What  if  he  did  ?  It  wouldn't  change  him,  save 
that  he  would  have  been  honest.  But  Anne  !  He  did  not 
know.  Perhaps  she  would  be  hurt,  and  not  have  him  back 
again.  Perhaps  she  would  not  take  any  notice.  He  found 
that  he  wanted  her  to  take  notice.  There  was  something 
terribly  unfair  in  that — to  want  her  to  take  notice,  and  yet 
to  receive  him  back  as  though  she  had  taken  none.  Still, 
there  it  was.  If  that  was  unfair  he  was  unfair.  But  did  he 
want  her  to  receive  him  back  ?  Perhaps  he  himself  would 
not  go  back,  of  his  own  choice  would  not  go  back.  Yes, 
that  was  the  truth  of  the  matter.  He  wouldn't  go  back. 
...  He  was  pulled  up  by  a  queer  inward  shock.  .  .  .  Why 
wasn't  the  idea  terrible  to  him  ?  It  ought  to  be  terrible, 
and  it  was  not  terrible  at  all.  Quite  plainly  he  could  see 


338  STILL  LIFE 

himself  deciding  not  to  return.  ...  He  musn't  let  Anne 
know  that. 

He  slowly  raised  his  glass  and  held  it  between  his  eye  and 
the  light,  curious  to  know  whether  his  hand  trembled.  It 
trembled  a  little. 

"  Anne,  I  want  to  drink  your  health,"  he  said,  filling  her 
glass  and  his  own.  While  they  touched  glasses,  she  looked 
at  him. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Anne  ?  "  he  said  when 
they  had  drunk. 

"  I  was  wondering,"  she  said,  "  why  we're  all  here  instead 
of  anywhere  else." 

"  Why,  where  would  you  rather  be  ?  " 

"  I  was  wondering  about  that,  too." 

"  What  was  it  you  said,  Anne  ?  "  asked  Dennis. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  know  why  we  are  all  here,  rather  than 
anywhere  else.  .  .  .  Apart  from  the  fact  that  you've  invited 
us." 

"  Because  it's  the  kind  of  place  where  you  can  forget 
that  you've  lost  your  courage.  .  .  .  That's  why  I'm  here, 
anyhow."  He  laughed  at  himself.  "My  God,  but  I'm 
being  terribly  heavy.  It's  the  first  stage,  when  I've  drunk 
too  much.  .  .  .  When  one  drinks,  one  becomes  serious,  isn't 
that  so,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  That  is  true,"  she  said. 

"  Please  don't  agree  with  me  unless  you  really  want  to. 
I  don't  mind." 

"  No  .  .  .  but  it's  true  all  the  same  .  .  .  one  must  drink 
more,  that's  all."  She  filled  up  Dennis's  glass  for  him. 
"  I  want  to  dance.  Madame  and  I  will  dance  the  next 
together  ?  It's  more  gentil  when  two  ladies  dance  together. 
I  think  so." 

"  I  should  like  to,"  said  Anne.  "  But  are  you  never  sad, 
like  monsieur  ?  "  She  nodded  towards  Dennis. 

"  Never  sad  like  monsieur,"  she  said  decidedly,  shaking 
her  head  and  speaking  with  the  rim  of  the  glass  between 
her  lips. 


STILL  LIFE  339 

"  But  what  do  you  do  when  your  lover  leaves  you  ?  " 

"  Then  I  weep— tears — but  I'm  not  sad  like  monsieur." 

The  orchestra  burst  into  another  American  dance, 
tumultuous,  noisy,  but  with  some  faint  echo  of  the  melan- 
choly lilt  of  the  music  whence  it  came.  The  girl  stood  up 
quickly  and  moved  her  doubled  fists  in  impatient  delight. 

"  This  is  admirable,"  she  said. 

Maurice  and  Dennis  watched  them.  The  hoop  of  the 
girl's  blue  skirt  stuck  out  ridiculously  high  behind  her,  as 
Anne  held  her  close.  Now  Anne's  dancing  seemed  to  be 
the  full  completion  of  her  walk.  Because  her  whole  body 
moved  in  rhythm,  it  was  as  though  her  feet  moved  not  at 
all.  She  might  have  remained  on  the  spot  where  she  stood 
and  yet  she  would  have  been  dancing  still.  The  girl  seemed 
to  partake  of  a  common  rapture.  In  Anne's  arms  she  was 
soft  and  languid,  dancing  in  a  dream  that  might  have  had 
no  end.  She  leant  her  head  against  Anne's  shoulders  and 
closed  her  eyes,  pressing  nearer  and  nearer  to  her.  The  lids 
fell  half-way  down  over  Anne's  own  eyes,  bent  down  to- 
wards the  girl's  black  hair.  In  her  nostrils  she  felt  nothing 
but  the  pungent  sweet  smell  of  oranges  that  rose  from  the 
hair  that  scattered  over  her  bosom.  The  noisy,  monotonous 
music  sped  distances  away.  A  glare  of  white  and  yellow 
and  red  filtered  dimly  through  her  lashes.  The  girl's  soft 
body  melted  into  the  instinctive  rhythm  of  her  own. 

"  Do  your  lovers  leave  you  often  ?  "  she  asked  naturally, 
almost  unconsciously.  For  Anne  they  might  have  con- 
tinued to  talk  together  thus,  for  ever. 

"  I  have  had  very  few  lovers,  madame."  The  words 
faded  unechoed  into  the  full  silence  of  the  dance. 

"  Perhaps  monsieur  is  going  to  leave  you  and  you  are 
sad."  The  girl  shifted  her  head  on  Anne's  shoulder  as  she 
spoke. 

"  I  don't  know.    Perhaps,"  said  Anne. 

"  All  that  is  nothing.  Ca  pique  pour  un  petit  moment, 
C'est  tout." 

"  This  is  better."    Anne  held  her  tight. 


340  STILL  LIFE 

"  When  a  man  can  leave  you,  it's  better  he  should  leave 
you  immediately.  C'est  bien  moins  de  misere." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  different  for  you.  You  are  not  so  lonely 
as  I." 

"  Moi,  je  ne  suis  pas  seule.  J'ai  un  petit — un  beau  petit 
gosse.  Mais  c'est  triste  d'etre  toute  seule.  Ca  vous 
enerve." 

Anne  felt  that  the  whole  world  had  dropped  away  from 
them  as  they  danced.  She  might  say  anything,  do  any- 
thing, be  anything,  if  only  the  dance  went  on.  The  thought 
that  it  should  stop  was  incredible.  Then  a  vision  of  the 
girl's  beau  petit  gosse  loomed  ridiculous  before  her.  The 
thought  was  so  incongruous  then  and  there  that  she  laughed 
derisively  at  herself.  She  waited  quite  calmly  for  the 
music  to  end,  dancing  still,  her  eyes  now  fixed  on  the  blue 
hoop  that  waved  like  a  monstrous  heavy  tail ;  she  was 
amused  by  the  sight  and  wholly  herself. 

"  But  of  course  monsieur  is  not  going  to  leave  me  at  all. 
It  was  only  a  Hague.  You  made  me  drunk." 

"But  it's  beautiful  to  be  drunk  like  that,  with  dancing." 

The  two  men  watched  them.  Into  the  whirl  of  yearn- 
ings and  indecisions  which  worked  beneath  Dennis's 
natural  control  a  hard  vein  of  resolution  slowly  spread. 
For  a  moment  he  had  desired  the  girl.  But  he  desired  all 
women,  and  since  the  desire  was  vague,  it  faded.  Now  he 
needed  her,  not  for  the  satisfaction  of  desire,  which  passed 
easily  and  unregrettably  away,  but  to  arrest  his  fluctuant 
self.  In  her  he  could  assert  himself  against  the  tumult  of 
instinct  and  impulse  which  beset  him.  To  go  away  with 
her,  to  treat  her  as  any  one  of  the  thousand  men  he  saw 
and  detested  in  their  traffic  with  women,  under  Anne's 
eyes,  under  the  eyes  of  that  tempestuous  and  accusing  soul 
which  took  shape  sometimes  in  Anne,  but  more  often 
strangely  in  the  tremulous  sneering  lips  of  Miss  Etheredge, 
that  would  justify  him  to  himself,  prove  him  a  man  able 
to  steer  by  his  own  star.  The  purpose  hardened  within 
him  as  his  eyes  firmly  followed  their  dance.  The  girl  was 


STILL  LIFE  341 

Anne's  now  ;  but  she  would  have  to  come  with  him,  have 
to  come  into  the  power  of  his  money.  It  was  the  idea  of 
compulsion  and  brutality  upon  which  he  fastened.  He 
would  rather  she  came  against  her  will  than  liking  him. 
The  more  she  seemed  to  lose  herself  in  the  dreamy  intoxi- 
cation of  her  dance  with  Anne,  the  more  the  joy  of  his 
secret  determination  glowed  beneath  him.  He  followed  her 
every  movement.  His  glance  passed  from  her  slender 
yellow  arms  to  the  head  which  she  pillowed  as  though  in 
sleep  on  Anne's  breast.  He  felt  her  little  body  shrink  under 
his  touch ;  he  saw  her  eyes  open  in  a  childish  stare  of 
horror. 

"  Do  you  like  that  girl  ?  "  he  asked  Maurice. 

Maurice  had  heard  Anne's  question  to  the  girl,  "  What 
do  you  do  when  your  lovers  leave  you  ?  "  and  had  been 
slowly  pondering  its  significance.  It  was  significant,  that 
he  knew.  Whether  to  Anne,  he  did  not  know. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  to  Dennis.  "  She's  so  complete.  .  .  . 
They  both  seem  to  be  miles  away  ...  in  another  world." 

"  It's  a  good  thing  to  meet  one  of  these  women  that  you 
needn't  pity." 

"  You  couldn't  pity  her.  I  can't — and  I  can  pity  any- 
body. .  .  .  She  might  rather  pity  me." 

"  I  think  she's  afraid  of  me." 

"  Do  you  ?  .  .  .  She  seems  to  have  taken  to  Anne." 

"  She  makes  them,  somehow.  .  .  .  She  ought  not." 

"  Ought  not  ?  ...  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  They've  no  business  to  take  to  anybody,  except  one  of 
themselves.  .  .  .  It's  better  for  them.  If  you  have  to  be 
animal,  stay  an  animal.  .  .  .  There's  nothing  wrong  in  being 
an  animal.  I'm  not  sure  it's  not  the  right  thing  ;  but  to  try 
to  be  both — it  only  hurts.  Think  what  a  shock  she'll  have 
when  I  go  home  with  her  and  pay  the  money — me  after 
Anne." 

While  he  spoke  Dennis  looked  at  the  pair.  The  music 
twice  repeated,  ended  suddenly.  The  girl  woke  out  of  her 
dream.  Taking  Anne's  hand  she  made  her  way  back  to 


342  STILL  LIFE 

the  table.  She  put  a  cigarette  in  her  mouth  and  leant 
languidly  with  her  arms  upon  the  table  to  take  the  light 
which  Dennis  made  for  her. 

"  It  is  not  every  day  one  dances  like  that,"  she  said. 
c'  It  is  different  with  men,  but  Madame  dances  as  a  lover." 

Anne  stood  up  at  the  table  and  smiled  at  the  words,  as 
she  might  smile  in  the  full  recollection  of  sunny  dreams, 
poised  between  sleep  and  wakefulness.  To  Maurice  she 
was  foreign.  He  did  not  notice,  as  he  had,  the  unfamiliar 
colour  on  a  familiar  Anne  ;  now  the  colour  and  Anne  were 
one,  and  both  strange  to  him.  He  did  not  wonder  at  it, 
but  merely  saw  with  his  eyes  and  painfully  accepted.  His 
mind  was  busy  with  Dennis's  declared  intention.  So 
decisive  was  it  and  unexpected.  Envy  followed  his  sur- 
prise, inevitably. 

At  a  table  in  front  of  him  the  red-haired  girl  sat  with  her 
head  thrown  perilously  back.  Her  eyes  were  shut  and  her 
mouth  opened  uncertainly.  Her  long  hair,  escaped  from 
its  band,  streamed  loose  over  the  chair-back.  The  blonde- 
bearded  man  was  laughing  in  front  of  her.  In  the  middle 
of  the  room,  stood  the  tall,  sallow  man  with  his  wig  of  jet- 
black  hair.  So  black  were  his  clothes  and  so  white  the 
light  which  poured  upon  them,  that  he  seemed  to  waver 
between  the  poles  of  colour,  to  come  into  definite  being  out 
of  nothingness,  and  to  pass  as  quickly  back  again,  like  a 
picture  seen  on  a  background  of  closed  eyes.  He  was  sing- 
ing a  loud  high-pitched  song,  seriously,  while  he  drew  his 
tall  body  up  and  made  stilted  gestures  with  the  flattened 
palm  of  his  hand.  The  patron,  curly-haired,  with  a  red, 
sunken  face,  like  an  American  of  caricature  without  his 
beard,  paused  in  his  ministrations  to  hear.  A  girl  in  an 
orange  dress  like  a  Russian  peasant's,  with  high  dancing 
boots,  leant,  hands  in  pockets,  against  the  partition  by  the 
door.  She  moved  her  head  from  time  to  time  to  free  the 
black  hair  that  curled  into  the  nape  of  her  neck.  Beyond 
her,  many  girls,  topped  by  the  scarlet  doll,  delightfully 
waited.  At  the  long  border  of  full  tables  round  the  room 


STILL  LIFE  343 

everyone  seemed  to  be  silent  for  the  song.  The  pale-faced 
woman  of  many  pearls  who  had  watched  the  man  while  he 
danced,  watched  him  still.  Her  elbows  rested  still  on  the 
table,  and  the  long  cigarette  still  trailed  smoke  before  her 
face.  The  man's  dead-black  head  rose  yet  higher,  like  a 
mask  upon  his  firm-lined  face.  Some  ice  tinkled  musically 
in  a  bucket.  Then  the  red-haired  girl  in  front  of  Maurice 
jolted  her  head  forward  and  laughed,  harsh  and  loud.  The 
patron  frowned  and  listened  on.  The  blonde-bearded  man, 
smiling,  laid  his  hand  on  the  girl's  arm.  She  waked  into 
bewilderment,  then  whispered  raucously  to  him  so  that 
Maurice  could  hear,  "  Je  suis  un  vrai  type,  moi."  The  man 
nodded  assent ;  and  the  song  ascended  still. 

The  bravos  and  bises  sounded  hollow.  They  could  not 
conquer  the  silence  into  which  they  were  launched.  Long 
minutes  of  empty  fixity  seemed  to  pass  before  the  patron 
moved  and  the  chef  d'orchestre  raised  his  violin. 

"It  is  a  little  polisson.  Madame  did  not  understand  ? 
It  isn't  important.  He  sings  everywhere.  ...  La  grande  en 
perles — elle  est  Russe — est  diablement  amoureuse  de  mi ; 
mais  il  s'en  f  .  .  .  de  tout  le  monde.  II  est  gentil  tout  de 
meme.  II  dit  des  fortunes,  tres  bien,  avec  des  cartes,  pour 
rien.  Celle-la  " — she  nodded  discreetly  towards  the  red- 
haired  girl — "  elle  s'ensaoule  tous  les  soirs.  Ca  vous 
degoute  peut-etre,  Madame  .  .  .  mais  elle  est  malade." 

"  Anne,  dance  with  me,  will  you  ?  "  said  Maurice. 

She  was  surprised.    "  I  thought  you  didn't  dance.  ..." 

"  I  can  a  little.    If  it  worries  you,  we'll  stop." 

"  Madame  dances  with  monsieur.  Then  I  must  dance 
with  le  bete."  She  laughed  at  Dennis.  "  But  the  next  is 
for  us  again,  is  it  not,  Madame  ?  " 

The  interminable  rag-time  struck  up  again.  Anne  put 
her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  leant  back  away  from  him, 
moving  her  head  slowly  from  side  to  side.  By  the  simple 
throwing  back  of  herself,  she  was  swept  clean  away  from 
him.  He  moved  anxiously  with  her.  The  chef  d'orchestre, 
dodging  dexterously  among  the  dancers,  swinging  his 


344  STILL  LIFE 

fiddle  high  and  low  to  avoid  them,  might  have  been  jeering 
at  him.  Why  had  he  danced  ?  Not  because  he  desired 
to  ...  why  ?  He  saw  Dennis  moving  grave  and  indifferent 
with  the  girl  pressed  close  to  him.  The  tall,  sallow  man 
swung  superbly  past  him,  smiling  inscrutably  beyond  the 
pearled  lady.  He  looked  at  his  hands  on  Anne's  out- 
stretched arms,  then  down  the  empty  space  between  them 
to  the  floor  where  their  feet  moved  like  distant  ordered 
planets.  If  only  some  thrill  of  love,  of  conquering  desire, 
would  pass  between  them.  Anne's  throat  lay  beautiful 
before  him.  He  would  like  to  kiss  it.  Like  ?  The  gulf 
between  it  and  the  desire  that  would  justify  it  was  broad 
as  the  space  between  them.  Like  ?  His  futility  seemed  to 
concentrate  in  the  thought.  The  hoop  of  the  blue  skirt 
touched  his  arm.  He  glanced  round,  and  she  grimaced  at 
him. 

Anne  opened  her  eyes.    "  Don't  let's  dance  any  more," 
she  said. 

His  determination  collapsed  at  the  words,  and  he  followed 
her  back  to  the  table. 

"  Why  did  you  ask  me  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  didn't  want 
to." 

"  I  know  I  didn't.  ...  I  was  jealous.  .  .  ." 

"Jealous?    Of  what?" 

"  I  don't  know.  ..."  A  sudden  flame  caught  in  him. 
"  Oh  !  What  the  hell  am  I  doing  here  ?  "  It  died  down 
instantly.  "  I  don't  know  anything,"  he  said  clearly, 
"  about  it  or  myself  or  anything.  I'm  tired  and  sick  of  it. 
If  only  .  .  ." 

"  If  only  what  ?  " 

"  If  only  ...  No,  I  don't  know  .  .  .  but  there  is  an  '  if 
only  '  about  me  somewhere  to-night.  .  .  .  You  seem  to  have 
gone  right  away  and  left  me  alone. . .  .  That's  why  I  wanted 
to  dance." 

"  But  you  want  to  be  left  alone,  don't  you  ?    Tell  me." 

"  There  are  different  ways  of  being  left  alone." 

One  half  of  him  cried  out  to  him  to  fall  at  Anne's  feet  in 


STILL  LIFE  345 

utter  abandonment.  Thus  he  would  have  been  rid  of  his 
burden.  But  something  remained  to  tell  him  that  he  had 
done  it  too  often,  that  Anne,  too,  was  weary  of  that.  It 
held  him  fast  and  shaped  his  resolution  to  something  which 
he  did  not  know. 

"  Anne,"  he  said  with  a  curious  decision,  "  I'm  very 
sorry  about  that.  It's  being  in  between  sober  and  drunk, 
or  it  may  be  something  else.  It's  very  hard  to  tell,  but,  at 
all  events,  I've  got  rid  of  it.  ...  But  I  don't  think  I'll  dance 
any  more.  .  .  .  I've  an  idea,"  he  said,  after  a  few  moments, 
"  that  it  has  something  to  do  with  Etheredge.  I  never  can 
tell  how  much  she  affects  me ;  but  it's  something  con- 
siderable. Does  a  woman  feel  like  that  about  her  ?  .  .  . 
but  I  can't  say  exactly  what  it  is  that  she  does." 

"  She  gives  me  a  kind  of  determination  about  myself, 
I  think,"  said  Anne. 

"  I  think  it  is  the  opposite  with  me." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  that."  Anne  turned  away  to  face  the 
girl,  who  was  arranging  her  rebellious  skirt  in  the  chair. 
"  He  was  nice  to  dance  with  ?  " 

"  Not  bad.  Much  better  than  I  thought.  I  believe  he 
loves  me  a  little."  As  he  climbed  down  into  his  seat,  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  an  inexpert  shyness.  Her  fingers, 
holding  the  spoon  to  eat  her  ice,  were  square  and  babyish, 
with  a  baby's  wire  ring.  "  It's  pretty,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  said, 
and  placed  it  in  the  middle  of  the  table  for  general  admira- 
tion. Herself,  she  looked  at  it  with  her  head  cocked  side- 
ways and  the  tip  of  her  tongue  showing  from  the  corner  of 
her  mouth.  "  I  got  it  at  Christmas  in  a  baroque.  I  paid 
two  sous  and  won  first  time." 

Dennis  took  the  hand  and  kissed  it ;  then,  as  though  the 
action  were  one,  he  caught  the  girl  by  the  shoulders  from 
her  chair  and  set  her  beside  him.  She  shrank  together, 
and  looked  up  at  him  with  a  childish  surprise.  She  was 
frightened  by  him,  and  yet  attracted.  She  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck  quickly  and  said,  "  You  won't  be  rough  with 
me,  will  you — rnon  grand  bete  ?  "  With  a  shy  and  nervous 


346  STILL  LIFE 

smile  she  turned  to  Anne.  "  You're  not  angry  with  me, 
madame  ?  "  Her  arms  were  still  about  Dennis's  neck,  and 
her  head  rested  against  his  breast. 

"  But  why  should  I  be  angry  ?  "  said  Anne.  "  I  am 
very  fond  of  you."  A  note  in  Anne's  voice  that  was  hardly 
sure  bore  witness  to  her  truth.  Dennis's  arm  slowly  en- 
circled the  girl's  waist.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  Anne. 

"  We  must  dance  then,"  said  the  girl  suddenly,  putting 
Dennis's  arm  away.  Anne  rose  at  the  words.  Close- 
pressed,  they  moved  into  the  music. 

The  girl's  head  nestled  familiar  upon  Anne's  shoulder. 
While  they  danced  she  spoke  but  once.  "He  is  gentil, 
your  friend,  le  grand  bete  ?  " 

Anne  woke  out  of  the  dance  and  looked  at  him  at  the 
far  end  of  the  room  before  she  answered.  Dennis  was  watch- 
ing them,  and  listening  to  something  that  Maurice  was 
saying. 

"  Yes,  he  is  gentil,  truly  gentil" 

The  girl,  whose  eyes  had  been  turned  up  to  look  for  her 
reply,  nestled  close  again,  like  a  child  reassured  before 
sleep,  to  whom  one  single  word  can  bring  contentment. 
The  movement  of  her  head  again  set  free  the  pungent, 
sweet  smell  of  her  hair,  like  oranges.  But  always  in  Anne's 
eyes,  while  she  danced,  was  the  large  blue  tail,  outspread 
and  swinging. 

Dennis  was  strange.  His  strangeness  occupied  Maurice's 
mind. 

"I've  never  known  you  like  this  before,"  he  said. 

"  Perhaps  you  never  will  again.  ...  I  imagine  it's  not 
the  kind  of  thing  that  will  often  happen  to  me." 

"  To  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  ?  " 

Dennis  looked  at  him.    His  lips  twisted  in  a  half-smile. 

"  Yes,  that's  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  It's  happened  often  enough  to 
you,  surely  ?  " 

"  You  say  you've  never  known  me  like  this  before. 
Neither  have  I.  .  .  .  It's  curious  how  fast  things  do  happen, 


STILL  LIFE  347 

isn't  it  ?  Last  night  reading  Tout- Paris  in  the  boat- 
saloon  :  to-night,  well,  I'm  not  sure  what  I'm  doing. 
Nobody  knows  quite.  Anne  doesn't ;  you  don't ;  and 
I'm  certain  this  girl  doesn't  .  .  .  girl  ...  I  suppose 
she's  as  old  as  me  .  .  .  older  than  you,  anyhow.  .  .  . 
That's  really  the  reason  why  I  wanted  to  come  here,  after 
all — so  that  I  shouldn't  know  what  I  was  doing.  I've 
succeeded  pretty  well,  pretty  well.  .  .  . 

"  I  wonder  now  why  I'm  going  home  with  this  woman. 
It  would  be  something,  quite  definitely  something,  if  I 
knew  that.  One  thing  is  certain.  It's  not  because  I  want 
her.  I've  wanted  hundreds  of  women  before — women  of 
the  same  kind.  I  can't  tell  whether  it's  just  vanity — the 
will  to  power.  There's  a  good  deal  in  that  idea  of  the  will 
to  power.  .  .  .  Only  it's  a  curious  way  of  showing  it,  con- 
sidering that  that  blonde-bearded  fool  in  front  of  you 
there  can  get  just  as  much  power  for  the  same  amount  of 
money.  Probably  more  power  for  his  money.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  I'm  doing  it  to  spite  myself.  That's  a  rotten 
kind  of  motive,  according  to  my  ideas,  but  it  is  fairly 
strong." 

All  the  while  he  watched  the  patterns  he  drew  with  a 
spoon  upon  the  tablecloth.  "  Perhaps  it's  because  I'm  a 
little  drunk,  but  since  I  got  drunk  on  purpose  we  needn't 
count  that.  I  mean,  I  got  drunk  on  purpose  to  carry  it 
off  with  some  thoroughness.  This  is  good  stuff  to  drink 
too  much  of,  isn't  it  ?  Twenty-eight  francs  a  bottle.  I 
should  think  that  was  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  per  cent 
profit.  It  is  rather  strange  that  should  make  it  so  much 
better  to  drink.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  it's  the  kind  of  night  that 
I  ought  to  be  drinking  stuff  that  gives  the  patron  two 
hundred  and  fifty  per  cent.  It  justifies  me  somehow,  or 
do  you  not  feel  that  ?  " 

Maurice  nodded  and  listened.  He  was  surprised  that 
Dennis  was  watching  the  dancers  now,  while  he  continued 
to  speak. 

"  Funny  things  do  flit  across  one's  mind.  .  .  .  About 


348  STILL  LIFE 

love.  There  must  be  something  in  it.  They've  turned  out 
quite  a  lot  of  poetry  about  it,  quite  good,  too.  Do  you 
think  it's  peculiar  to  temperaments  ?  You  know '  Vivaimis, 
mea  Lesbia  atque  amemus  ! '  It  couldn't  have  come  out  of 
the  same  thing  that  that  blonde-bearded  b  .  .  .  feels 
about  that  woman  there  in  front  of  you,  could  it  ?  Not 
the  kind  of  thing  you  spend  a  few  years  in  constructing 
either.  I  can  see  yellow-hair's  argument  all  right,  myself. 
I  had  two  seconds  of  it  with  the  blue  girl  yonder.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  it  was  Catullus's  kind,  though.  I've  grown  too 
old,  or  I  was  born  too  old,  for  that. 

"  There's  the  problem.  Does  that  finish  the  business, 
or  is  there  another  kind  beyond  all  this — the  Dante — 
Beatrice  love  ?  Am  I  just  stuck  in  between  them,  or  is 
the  ideal  only  a  plant  ?  ...  People  seem  to  get  along 
without  it,  anyhow.  .  .  .  What's  strange  in  me  is  that  I 
can't  believe  it  really  is  a  plant ;  and  yet  I  can't  conceive 
it  truly  existing.  What's  the  good  of  it  existing  if  it  does 
not  exist  for  a  man  like  me  ?  How  can  it  exist  for  a  man 
who  is  eternally  conscious  of  himself,  as  I  am  ?  .  .  .  You 
have  to  lose  yourself.  ...  He  that  loseth  his  life  shall 
save  it.  I  feel  that  that's  true.  But  what's  the  good  of  a 
feeling  to  a  man  with  my  habit  of  mind  ?  Lose  myself  ?  If 
I  just  suggest  it  to  myself  nine- tenths  of  me  gets  up 
and  laughs.  .  .  . 

"  No,  I  believe  that  there  is  one  way  of  salvation  for  me  : 
to  do  something  instead  of  letting  something  be  done,  to 
do  something  and  wait,  something  that  makes  you  bound 
to  respond,  somehow  to  baptise  myself.  You  see  what  I 
mean.  The  doing  of  something  that  may  have  no  value 
in  itself,  but  which  costs  me  so  much  to  do  that  it  will 
always  be  a  symbol — that  is  what  I  come  to.  ...  What 
a  devil  of  a  time  this  dance  is  !  ...  or  am  I  talking 
quickly  .  .  .  ?  Perhaps  I'm  after  crucifying  myself  with 
the  blue  girl.  That's  strange,  too — how  one  comes  back 
to  the  old  symbols.  I  wonder  whether  they  meant  as 
much  then  as  they  do  to  me  now." 


STILL  LIFE  349 

Dennis  talked  on  aloud  to  himself  in  dispassionate 
monotone.  While  Maurice  listened  the  bright  lights  of 
the  room  swam  in  a  changing  grey  that  leapt  from  black 
to  white  as  had  the  shape  of  the  tall  singer  while  he  sang. 
Music  boomed  about  his  ears,  and  the  dancers  blurred  un- 
weary  paths  before  his  eyes.  He  must  be  drunk,  he  thought. 
An  intensity  of  remembrance,  that  took  neither  shape  nor 
name  nor  time,  flooded  into  the  channels  of  his  hungry 
sense.  He  could  not  wait  to  probe  the  mystery  of  recollec- 
tion. He  was  urgent  to  follow  Dennis,  who  was  passing 
beyond  him,  and  he  despaired  at  his  earthbound  spirit  that 
would  not  rise. 

"  Not  to  know  what  to-morrow  will  bring  forth.  I  do 
know.  I  know  that  I  shall  remain  within  my  boundaries 
and  refuse  myself  to  everything  from  fear.  We  can't  go  on 
living  like  that.  I  know  the  shape  of  myself  from  one 
year's  end  to  another.  Now  I  feel  I'm  imprisoned  in  it,  and 
I  must  burst  outside  somehow.  To  make  yourself  in- 
calculable. It  may  be  only  an  ideal.  .  .  .  The  blue  girl 
would  be  frightened  if  she  knew  she  had  to  help  me  do 
that.  I'm  frightened  myself.  Not  to  know  what  I  shall 
be — I  should  be  frightened  of  that,  if  I  didn't  know 
it  will  never  come  true.  It's  all  just  putting  up  an  argu- 
ment against  Destiny,  an  argument  instead  of  a  challenge. 
How  the  psychologists  would  laugh  to  hear  me  talk  of 
challenging  my  own  self,  making  myself  be  other  than  I 
am.  .  .  .  But  they  only  babble  after  all,  and  I  can  babble 
their  own  things  better  than  they  can.  I've  made  a  decent 
living  by  it  for  years.  I  thought  that  might  be  a  symbol 
if  I  gave  it  up ;  but  it  means  nothing.  It  doesn't  touch 
me.  I  want  something  that  will  touch  me.  I  shall  always 
be  myself,  but  now  my  self  is  smaller  than  I  am.  I  hate  it. 
I'm  dead  tired  of  it.  I  want  the  thing  that  hates  and  is 
tired  to  join  with  the  thing  I  hate.  They  might  make  a 
job  of  it,  they  might  ...  It  is  a  problem,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Maurice  heard  the  words  in  a  daze,  through  which  he 
tried  to  grope  after  the  sense  which  he  felt  they  had  for 


350  STILL  LIFE 

Dennis.  His  mind  refused  the  quest,  and  obstinately 
shaped  to  other  things,  to  clear  recurrent  pictures  of  past 
moments  with  Etheredge  and  with  Madeleine,  to  visions  of 
a  secure,  untroubled  Maurice — an  ideal  of  himself  so 
concrete  that  he  might  have  welcomed  the  imagined 
Maurice  as  a  friend  who  would  understand.  He  was 
present  too  in  certain  moments  of  the  past,  and  his  presence 
seemed  to  hold  the  past  together  with  the  future.  In  both 
he  was  possessed  by  a  kind  of  innocence,  which  conveyed 
no  meaning  to  Maurice  save  in  the  pictures  he  saw. 

Anne  and  the  girl  had  come  back  from  the  dance.  Dennis 
was  silent,  until  the  girl  looked  at  him  carefully  and  said  : 

"  Here  is  another  who  is  sad.  You  are  sad,  too,  grand 
bete  ?  " 

"  It's  not  sadness.     I'm  always  like  this,  I  assure  you." 

She  looked  incredulously  at  him  and  shook  her  head. 
"  You  are  funny.  I  don't  understand  you." 

He  leant  his  cheek  on  his  hand.  The  pressure  twisted 
his  lip  into  a  crooked  smile. 

"  What  is  it  you  don't  understand  ?  " 

"  You  change  so  quickly.  Sometimes  you  look — cruel, 
and  sometimes  you  look  as  though  someone  were  hurting 
you.  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  hurt  yourself,"  she  added  sagely. 
"  But  you  love  me,  don't  you,  grand  bete  ?  " 

"  I  ask  myself,"  he  replied,  as  one  really  pondering. 
"  Perhaps.  I  don't  know." 

"  Then  you  do  love  me,"  she  said,  with  triumphant 
conviction.  She  jumped  up  from  the  chair  and  sat  in  the 
cushioned  seat  beside  him. 

The  last  dance  had  fatigued  Anne.  While  her  excited 
breathing  calmed,  she  sat  still  and  pale,  looking  down  at 
her  hands  that  lay  languid  on  the  table.  Indifferent  to 
what  passed  about  her,  weary  of  the  familiar  aspect  of 
Maurice's  eyes,  that  were  always  apprehensive  of  discovery, 
she  pressed  the  blood  into  her  finger-nails,  striving  vaguely 
to  account  for  her  weariness.  The  still  suspense  of  waiting 
had  weakened  her.  She  had  for  so  long  been  endeavouring 


STILL  LIFE  351 

to  hold  herself  in  poise,  neither  too  eager  nor  reluctant  in 
response  to  that  which  confronted  her,  in  the  desperate 
knowledge  that  were  she  to  topple  from  her  poise  she  would 
fall  beyond  recovery.  It  seemed  to  her  that  unless  she 
maintained  herself  on  this  narrow  edge  the  stream  of  life 
would  pass  her  by.  She  held  by  some  deep  instinct  of  right 
and  wrong,  but  never  till  then  had  the  burden  of  the  right 
been  so  heavy.  She  would  gladly  suffer  the  waters  to  pass 
over  her,  she  thought,  while  she  gazed  through  dim  lashes 
at  the  fast  vanishing  blood  under  her  nails.  She  had 
played  for  something  too  high  for  her,  and  had  not  foreseen 
the  cost.  She  had  too  arduously  controlled  herself  to  some 
end  that  sped  away  in  smoke.  Her  own  fatalism  aroused 
her  unquiet  expectation.  She  only  had  the  courage  to 
expect  little  of  life  when  she  expected  much,  to  believe 
things  would  never  happen  again  when  she  believed  a 
better  thing  was  in  store  for  her.  She  thought  of  Maurice, 
and  she  seemed  inwardly  to  smile  at  her  own  prophetic 
soul.  It  was  strange  how  all  plans,  all  foreknowledge, 
failed  her  at  the  last.  She  thought  of  Miss  Etheredge, 
who  seemed  so  close  to  her.  She  was  very  old. 

She  heard  the  words  that  the  girl  spoke  to  Dennis. 
They  were  so  serious  and  childishly  profound.  "  When 
one  does  not  know,  then  one  loves."  She  was  born  into 
the  belief  that  Anne  had  tried  to  acquire.  How  far  they 
were  away  from  each  other !  Anne  wondered  whether  it 
was  the  distance  between  youth  and  age.  She  could  cry 
over  the  girl  in  blue,  with  the  scent  of  oranges  in  her  hair. 
She  was  very  near  to  crying,  even  while  she  answered  her 
questions  :  whether  Anne  thought  that  she  could  wear  a 
black  hat  with  a  yellow  feather.  She  had  seen  it  that 
afternoon,  when  she  got  up  early  to  look  at  the  shops.  It 
was  an  indubitable  occasion  at  fifteen  francs.  Whether  it 
was  good  or  bad  to  have  little  square  nails  like  hers. 
Marcelle — the  girl  with  Russian  boots — had  told  her  they 
were  demode.  They  compared  hands,  and  Anne  was  warned 
that  it  was  dangerous  to  have  a  broken  line  of  life.  Yes, 


352  STILL  LIFE 

Anne  could  have  cried  over  her — she  did  not  know  whether 
it  would  have  been  over  her — but  she  could  not  dance  with 
her  any  more. 

"  I  think  I'm  going  now,"  she  said.  "  Would  you  like 
to  stay  ?  "  she  asked  Maurice.  He  was  eager  to  go.  Trust- 
ing to  her  incomprehensible  English  she  said  aloud  that  he 
was  to  give  Dennis  fifty  francs  to  give  to  the  girl  from  her. 

Dennis  looked  up.  "  Don't  worry  about  the  money  now. 
I'll  do  it.  We  can  settle  up  afterwards.  I  am  paying  for 
everything  else." 

"  Don't  forget,"  said  Anne. 

"  Madame  is  going  ?  "  said  the  girl,  disappointed. 

"  I  feel  so  tired." 

;'  You  got  up  very  early  perhaps  ?  " 

"  At  eight  in  the  morning." 

"  Al — ors.  ..."  Anne  was  relieved  that  she  found 
the  explanation  so  complete.  "  Mais  le  grand  bete  reste 
avec  moi  ?  " 

Anne  answered  for  Dennis.    "  Naturellement." 

"  Je  suis  content,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him,  then  at 
Anne,  and  swinging  her  legs  from  the  cushioned  seat. 

While  Maurice  waited  on  the  landing  the  girl  said  good- 
bye to  Anne  in  the  ladies'  room.  She  kissed  Anne  on  the 
mouth,  and  Anne  was  glad  to  be  kissed.  '  You  will 
remember  me  sometimes,  is  it  not  so,  Madame  ?  " 

Anne  and  Maurice  went  down  the  stairs  together.  They 
saw  the  girl  in  blue  leaning  over  the  banisters  and  waving 
to  them,  after  the  sound  of  the  music  had  died  finally 
away. 

In  the  cab,  as  they  drove  home  together,  Maurice  felt 
something  of  Anne's  silent  weariness.  He  wanted  to 
approach  her,  although  he  knew  that  his  approach  would 
not  penetrate  past  her  silence  or  dissipate  her  weariness. 
He  would  only  be  acting  again,  and  she  would  know  it 
only  too  well ;  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  do  that  again, 
and  make  himself  utterly  worthless  in  her  eyes.  But  against 
his  strained  resolution  warred  an  instinct,  He  was  afraid 


STILL  LIFE  353 

of  Anne  silent  and  weary.  Thus  the  last  bond  that  held 
him  to  a  being  who  loved  him  was  broken.  He  was  peril- 
ously and  terribly  alone.  But  he  could  not  attempt  to 
approach  close  to  her.  His  very  fingers  were  hypocrites 
as  they  sought  for  her  hand  and  rested  uneasily  upon  it. 
Yet  the  silence  in  which  the  last  ground  crumbled  under 
his  feet  was  not  to  be  borne.  He  must  say  something,  even 
though  his  words  and  her  answer  were  only  sounds  that 
would  fill  the  void  between  them  as  they  were  spoken.  He 
was  not  desperate,  nor  excited ;  only  he  seemed  instinctively 
to  react  to  her  silence.  It  left  him  alone  and  empty,  and 
he  could  not  bear  to  be  finally  alone. 

"  I  didn't  think  Dennis  would  stay  behind  with  that 
girl.  .  .  .  It's  not  a  practice  of  his.  But  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out  he's  queer  to-night.  He  was  talking  to  me  a  lot 
while  you  were  dancing.  I  didn't  understand  it  all.  I 
couldn't  listen.  But  he  has  an  idea  of  symbolic  regenera- 
tion." He  tapped  with  the  window-strap  upon  his  hand 
bent  forward. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Anne,  ".  .  .  in  some  ways  .  .  . 
and  then  again  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  strange  at  all.  .  .  . 
It  might  even  be  that  the  world  will  stop  to-night.  ..." 

"  Oh  .  .  .  the  world  never  does  stop.  Men  and  women 
do,  that's  all.  Perhaps  Dennis  is  stopping  to-night." 

"  Perhaps  .  .  .  but  it  isn't  everybody  can  stop  .  .  . 
only  those  that  are  moving.  But  then  to  move  may  only 
be  a  habit  that  it's  best  to  get  out  of .  .  .  .  Dennis  may  have 
come  to  that  conclusion.  It's  not  very  far  from  anybody, 
until  they  are  old  and  full  of  pity  and  at  peace.  .  .  .  But 
to  look  for  forgetfulness  isn't  a  sure  way  of  finding  it,  I 
suppose.  Dennis  would  know  that  ...  I  think  that  I 
should  like  above  all  other  things  a  window  on  to  the  world. 
It  might  make  all  the  difference,  if  the  painful  things  were 
only  curious  and  pitiful." 

"  Is  Dennis  painful,  then  ?  " 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Dennis." 

The  quiet  tinkling  of  the  bell  in  the  hotel  door  was 
2  A 


354  STILL  LIFE 

forlorn  and  solitary  to  Anne.  A  momentary  wave  of 
rushing,  painful  blood  pressed  about  her  temples  as  she 
climbed  the  stairs.  Her  slow,  thoughtful  talking  in  the 
cab  had  repressed  the  ferment,  and  now  that  her  thoughts 
had  escaped  her  control,  it  raged  stormily  back  again. 
She  held  on  to  the  stair-rail.  Maurice  stopped  and  took 
her  by  the  elbow. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  I  drank  too  much  champagne.  .  .  .  It's 
all  right  now.  ...  It  was  as  though  my  forehead  were  on 
fire.  ...  I  shall  be  asleep  in  a  moment." 

Anne  undressed  quickly.    "  I  need  to  sleep,"  she  said. 

Maurice  lay  beside  her  thinking.  He  was  sure  that  his 
busy  brain  would  not  let  him  sleep.  It  was  ghastly  to  lie 
there  together,  when  they  weren't  really  together  at  all. 

"  It's  funny  how  much  will  happen  in  a  day,"  he  said 
aloud,  "...  after  last  week.  ..." 

Anne  made  no  reply.  He  saw  that  her  eyes  were  closed, 
and  wondered  whether  she  was  really  asleep.  He  would 
have  understood  so  well  if  it  had  been  only  pretence.  He 
turned  away  from  her  full  of  sobbing  thoughts  that  sank 
into  drowsiness.  He  felt  Anne's  arm  steal  over  his  shoulder. 
She  must  be  sleeping,  he  decided,  and  himself  slept. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  Anne  first  woke  the  daylight  had  faintly  begun 
callously  to  disclose  the  disorder  of  the  room.  She  glanced 
under  half-raised  lids  at  the  litter  of  clothes  upon  the  chairs 
and  the  chaos  of  her  dressing-table,  then  closed  her  eyes 
and  lay  still.  Incessant  thoughts,  hybrids  of  truth  and 
vain  imagination,  started  on  flight  within  her  mind  and 
fell,  like  new-fledged  birds,  grotesquely  to  the  ground.  In 
her  wakeful  sleep  she  smiled  at  her  own  languid  impotence 
to  control  or  impel  them.  Maurice's  hand  lay  warm  upon 
her  breast,  and  she  gently  covered  it  with  her  own.  Had 
there  been  no  smile  upon  her  lips  one  would  have  thought 
that  her  gesture  was  of  pain.  The  smile  slowly  relaxed 
and  her  firm  underlip  drooped  a  little,  while  she  pressed 
his  hand  yet  closer  to  her  breast.  She  was  very  sad,  and  so 
weak  before  her  sadness  that  she  yielded  almost  with 
relief.  It  wrapped  her  completely  about,  and  in  its  embrace 
she  passed  into  a  light  sleep. 

She  woke  again  when  Maurice  jumped  out  of  bed  sud- 
denly, as  abruptly  roused  by  a  voice.  She  heard  him  wash, 
and  turned  with  open  eyes  to  watch  him.  Though  he  had 
been  noisy  enough  in  his  movements,  he  was  surprised 
when  he  faced  her  quiet  observation. 

"  I  must  go  out,"  he  said.  "  Last  night  .  .  .  it's  upset 
me  .  .  .  it's  silly  to  drink  so  much.  I'll  walk  it  off." 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  feel  all  right  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    I  haven't  had  time  to  feel." 

"  You  don't  look  very  fine."  Her  face  pillowed  upon 
her  hands,  her  brown  eyes  open  wide,  of  which  he  could  not 
tell  whether  they  were  dumb  with  pain  or  not  yet  awakened, 
made  him  uneasy. 

355 


356  STILL  LIFE 

"  Perhaps  I'm  not  used  to  it,"  she  said.  She  longed  to 
call  to  him  not  to  go.  In  the  breast  upon  which  his  warm 
hand  had  lain  an  ache  of  sudden  loneliness  seemed  to  have 
become  material.  With  her  teeth  she  held  her  lip  and  a 
cruel  contempt  of  herself  possessed  her,  as  one  betrayed 
into  knowledge  of  unknown  deeps  of  weakness  in  his  soul. 

"  You're  going  to  Etheredge  this  afternoon,  aren't  you, 
Anne  ?  "  He  knotted  his  tie  before  the  mirror  and  his  back 
was  turned  to  her. 

"  Yes  ...  I  suppose  so,"  she  said  slowly. 

"  And  we're  dining  with  Ramsay  to-night. .  . .  You  don't 
mind  my  going  out  now,  do  you  ?  Or  would  you  rather  I 
stayed  ?  "  He  was  putting  on  his  coat.  If  he  did  not 
make  haste  to  go  he  would  not  go  at  all.  he  thought,  and  he 
was  impatient  to  be  out  of  the  room. 

"  It  will  do  you  good,"  she  said.  "  To  stay  here  suits  me 
better." 

He  did  not  believe  her  words,  but  they  were  there  and 
sufficient  for  him.  He  had  waked  with  a  resolution  which 
obsessed  him.  It  might  have  been  slowly  crystallising  into 
form  during  his  hours  of  sleep,  so  that  he  was  shaped,  when 
he  awoke,  by  one  definite  and  dominant  plan.  He  must 
not,  at  whatever  cost,  must  not  go  back  on  what  had 
happened  last  night.  While  he  dressed  under  Anne's  eyes 
his  decision  sensibly  weakened.  He  strove  to  hold  himself 
rigid  like  a  man  who  faces  long  contemplated  physical  pain, 
and  to  force  a  new  strength  into  his  resolution  by  repeating 
in  his  mind  :  "I  must  not,  I  must  not." 

He  stood,  ready  to  depart,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  as 
though  he  was  deliberating. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  and  see  that  man  Boissonier,"  he  said. 
"  He's  at  St.  Cloud.  The  ride  will  be  long  enough  to  blow 
my  headache  away."  It  was,  indeed,  to  have  been  expected 
that  his  head  should  ache. 

He  went  to  the  bed  and  leaned  over  Anne,  kissing  her 
lips.  "  Would  you  rather  I  didn't  go  ?  "  he  said,  and 
looked  into  her  eyes.  They  were  steady. 


STILL  LIFE  357 

"  Why  ?  "  she  simply  said. 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  ."  He  kissed  her  again.  Smiling 
wryly,  he  lingered.  "I'll  be  back  here  after  tea-time.  .  .  . 

I  don't  want  to  go  to  Etheredge I  thought  I  shouldn't." 

He  hesitated  seeking  something  to  say. 

"  Good-bye,"  was  all  he  said. 


Maurice  sat  in  the  Tuileries,  smoking  many  cigarettes. 
At  times  he  would  lean  back  and  watch  through  the  rail- 
ings the  flickering  silhouettes  of  those  who  passed  along  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli,  and  at  others  he  would  thrust  his  hand  into 
the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat,  only  to  withdraw  it  again 
and  bend  forward,  watching  the  ground.  A  large  yellow 
ball  rolled  into  his  vision.  He  regarded  that  with  the  same 
concentration.  A  small  leg,  encased  in  shining  brown 
gaiters,  was  gingerly  stretched  between  his  own,  followed 
by  a  small  hand  that  vainly  struggled  with  the  excessive 
ball.  The  boy — for  it  was  a  boy — bumped  unsteadily 
against  Maurice's  knee,  before  he  woke  sufficiently  to 
notice  a  big  Breton  nurse  looming  before  him.  She  held 
by  the  hand  a  little  girl  with  a  hoop,  and  looked  at  Maurice 
unfavourably.  He  bent  down  and  extricated  the  ball ; 
then  watched  the  empty  ground  again. 

He  was  seeking  the  courage  to  read  Madeleine's  letter. 
It  had  lain  in  his  pocket  since  the  day  of  its  discovery ; 
and  now  he  could  not  even  find  it  in  him  to  take  the  case 
out  again,  for  it  seemed  that  the  reading  must  hurt  him. 
To  follow  out  those  sloping  phrases  once  more  ...  he  could 
not.  He  knew  all  that  they  had  to  say.  He  knew  the 
address.  The  very  room  was  known  to  him.  He  withdrew 
his  hand  from  his  pocket  and  watched  the  twinkling  figures 
through  the  railings. 

A  large  impulse  came  to  him.  The  cigarette  was  thrown 
away  ;  the  case  taken  from  his  pocket  without  a  tremor. 
He  held  the  pieces  together  on  his  knee  and  read  the  letter 
slowly.  Then  he  rose  and  began  to  walk  along  the  Quai  du 


358  STILL  LIFE 

Louvre.  A  warmth  of  comforting  decision  and  a  fear  of 
detection,  that  only  wakened  him  to  a  fuller  knowledge  of 
his  new  felicity,  were  all  that  he  felt  while  he  crossed  the 
bridge  and  passed  the  cold  plenty  of  the  fountains  of  the 
place.  Not  till  he  approached  the  Hue  Valette  did  his 
inquietude  begin.  A  remembered  shop  window,  full  of 
mildly  aesthetic  jewellery,  of  statuettes  and  photographs 
and  first  editions,  unwillingly  detained  him  while  he 
glanced  along  the  street  to  the  high  door.  After  a  little 
while  he  walked  on  past  the  door,  casting  as  it  might  be 
casually  a  furtive  look  into  the  grey  emptiness  which  the 
doorway  framed,  and  sat  down  in  front  of  a  cheap  cafe. 
He  drank  coffee  and  asked  for  pen  and  paper. 

The  cafe  was  at  the  corner  where  the  Rue  Valette 
cascaded  down  broad  stone  steps  into  the  empty  boulevard. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  street,  instead  of  the  terrace  on 
which  he  sat  the  ground  had  been  cut  away  into  a  great 
basement  stretching  for  many  }^ards  beside  and  below  the 
boulevard,  spanned  at  the  near  end  by  the  stone  steps  as 
by  a  bridge.  Out  of  this  cutting  tall  dilapidated  houses 
rose  above  forgotten  shops,  with  crazy  windows  and  signs 
written  awry.  It  struck  Maurice  as  curious  that  houses 
should  be  so  old.  As  if  from  a  tunnel  beneath  his  feet  a 
man  and  a  woman  appeared,  dragging  a  tall  heavy  barrow 
along  the  cutting.  The  man's  arms  were  bent,  in  the  effort 
to  balance  the  barrow,  above  his  shoulders,  even  above  his 
head,  which  was  bowed  almost  to  the  ground.  He  seemed 
to  be  crawling  slowly  like  an  insect.  The  bare  arms  of  the 
woman,  who  pushed  the  cart  from  behind,  were  very  red. 
They  might  have  been  painted.  Maurice  saw  them  stop  ; 
heard  the  man  call.  Then  a  wooden  arm  swung  heavily 
out  from  the  roof,  and  a  long  shining  chain  shot  down  like  a 
stream  of  falling  water  and  crashed  on  to  the  ground.  The 
woman  and  the  man  together  began  to  haul  up  sacks  from 
their  barrow.  The  sacks  jumped  unsteadily  upwards  until 
they  were  finally  engulfed  in  a  black  hole  in  the  top  of  the 
house.  Maurice  counted  twenty-two  that  made  the 


STILL  LIFE  359 

journey.  Twenty- two  sacks — that  must  have  been  heavy. 
He  wondered  what  they  might  contain.  Grain  ?  No  one 
could  pull  twenty-two  sacks  of  grain  in  a  barrow.  They 
were  probably  full  of  rags.  The  answer  satisfied  him,  and 
as  the  barrow  slowly  climbed  up  from  the  depths  many 
yards  away,  Maurice  turned  to  his  cold  coffee  and  his  pen 
and  paper. 

For  a  while  he  held  the  pen  undecidedly  over  a  sheet. 
Having  written  nothing,  he  put  it  down  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
Again  he  took  the  pen  and  set  it  down  once  more.  Then 
he  folded  a  clean  sheet  of  notepaper  and  sealed  it  into  an 
envelope,  drank  his  coffee,  and  paid  the  gar$on.  With 
the  envelope  in  his  pocket  he  walked  across  the  road  to  a 
second-hand  bookshop.  He  read  the  titles  of  innumerable 
books,  following  the  volumes  one  by  one  along  each  shelf  ; 
and,  when  the  last  title  had  been  read,  he  turned  sharply 
and  walked  up  the  Rue  Valette.  Standing  to  one  side  of 
the  doorway  into  which  he  had  glanced  descending,  he 
stared  doubtfully  at  the  number  57.  He  found  it  strange 
that  the  blue  and  white  number  above  his  head  should 
really  be  57  ;  somehow  he  expected  it  to  change.  That  it 
did  not  change  depressed  him.  Of  course  it  could  not  be 
anything  else.  Not  houses  change  but  their  inhabitants. 
But  he  could  not  argue  himself  out  of  a  terror  of  that  blue 
and  white  number.  Someone  would  surely  come  to  him 
if  he  stayed  longer  by  the  door. 

The  thought  precipitated  him  over  the  wooden  step,  and 
he  was  waiting  nervously  in  the  filtered  grey  light  of  the 
entrance.  He  could  not  tap  at  the  concierge's  door,  and 
he  was  wondering  how  long  he  could  bear  it,  checking  his 
incessant  impulse  to  run  away,  before  anyone  should  come. 

But  the  concierge  opened  her  door  quickly.  Her  voice 
was  very  distinct ;  but  it  had  very  little  to  do  with  her. 

"  Monsieur  desire  .  .  .  ?  " 

With  anxious  politeness  Maurice  raised  his  hat.  With 
the  other  hand  he  felt  for  the  envelope,  while  he  asked 
pardon  many  times. 


360  STILL  LIFE 

"  Does  Mademoiselle  de  la  Pene  live  here  ?  "  he  asked. 
He  was  struck  by  a  quick  agony  of  suspicion  that  she 
recognised  him.  He  did  not  remember  her  at  all.  She  had 
been  no  more  than  a  vague  voice  to  him.  The  suspicion 
was  untrue.  She  was  preparing  to  return  into  her  room. 

"  She  went  away  two  months  ago." 

u  Could  you  tell  me  where  she  lives  now  ?  " 

"No." 

He  could  not  believe  in  the  "  No."  It  was  too  final  a 
severance. 

"  But  I  have  an  important  letter  for  her,"  he  said  halt- 
ingly. "...  If  I  only  knew.  ..." 

The  concierge  watched  him  curiously. 

"  Oh,  a  letter.  ...  I  believe  there  is  an  address  for  a 
letter,  if  that's  all.  She  doesn't  live  there,  though."  The 
concierge  passed  into  the  room,  and  hunted  among  the 
papers  in  a  little  table.  At  last  she  came  out  with  one  slip 
and  held  it  before  Maurice  while  she  fumbled  the  words  of 
the  address. 

"  76  Rue  Vauquelin.  Don't  know  it.  It's  not  in  this 
quarter." 

The  handwriting  was  Madeleine's.  The  address  printed 
on  his  brain. 

"  Then  I  will  write  there,"  he  said  and  hurried  away. 

The  ordeal  had  been  intolerable.  It  continued  while  he 
went  up  the  street.  At  the  top  he  was  exhilarated  and 
free.  He  felt  that  he  had  escaped  from  the  brink  of  destruc- 
tion, when  he  had  emerged  from  the  street  and  passed  into 
an  open  square.  On  the  corner  of  the  pavement  he  hesi- 
tated what  he  should  do.  It  was  of  no  use  to  return  to  the 
hotel,  for  then  he  would  have  to  go  with  Anne  to  Miss 
Etheredge.  He  did  not  want  to  do  that.  If  he  went  to  see 
her,  he  would  go  alone.  The  thought  that  Etheredge  would 
assuredly  talk  to  Anne  of  Madeleine  disturbed  him  for  a 
little  while,  until  he  was  reassured  by  a  subtler  conviction 
that  she  would  not  say  a  word  about  him  and  Madeleine, 
unless  he  was  there.  And  then  it  would  not  matter  at  all. 


STILL  LIFE  361 

He  walked  on  slowly  through  the  streets,  idly  pausing 
before  the  shop  windows,  looking  idly  into  the  faces  of  the 
passers-by,  who  sometimes  returned  his  glance.  When 
they  did  he  looked  quickly  away.  A  woman  passed,  wear- 
ing a  black  hat  and  a  long  grey  thick  coat  of  tweed  buttoned 
across  her  throat.  It  made  her  bosom  look  very  full.  She 
looked  at  him  at  the  very  moment  that  he  looked  at  her, 
and  he  glanced  guiltily  away.  After  a  few  steps  it  broke 
into  his  consciousness  that  she  had  looked  at  him  with 
intent.  He  looked  backwards  over  his  shoulder.  She  was 
looking  at  him  still.  As  their  glance  met  she  turned  and 
walked  away  very  slowly.  He  followed  her  a  little  faster. 
Her  hands  were  in  the  pockets  of  her  coat,  and  sometimes 
she  would  glance  round  to  a  point  beyond  him.  She  was, 
he  knew,  only  looking  to  see  whether  he  still  followed.  He 
was  quite  close  to  her,  so  that  he  could  count  the  six  large 
buttons  of  dark  grey  in  the  middle  of  her  back.  She  was 
crossing  a  narrow  street,  and  when  she  was  fairly  on  the 
far  pavement  he  was  on  the  edge  of  the  near.  As  he  crossed, 
she  suddenly  swerved  down  the  narrow  street  and  hurried 
desperately  away. 

Disappointment  that  he  had  been  forbidden  followed 
his  relief  that  he  had  been  delivered,  and  he  wandered  un- 
comfortably on  through  unknown  streets,  finding  some 
pleasure  in  the  knowledge  that  it  did  not  matter  whether 
he  was  lost,  for  he  would  always  be  able  to  call  a  cab.  His 
hand  closed  on  the  perceptible  weight  of  his  purse  with 
satisfaction,  even  while  he  still  felt  indefinite  regrets  that 
he  had  not  been  free  to  follow  the  woman.  It  was  as 
though  one  element  were  lacking  in  his  destiny.  So  many 
were  free  to  do  what  they  desired  without  fearing  the  con- 
sequences. For  them  there  were  no  consequences.  He 
read  the  names  of  all  the  shops  that  he  passed,  wondering 
if  it  were  possible  to  remember  them  all,  for  he  recollected 
that  a  famous  writer,  whose  name  he  had  forgotten,  could 
pass  down  a  street  and  remember  every  shop  that  he  had 
passed.  Accordingly  he  tried  to  make  a  notebook  of  his 


362  STILL  LIFE 

memory,  though  he  foresaw,  with  disappointment,  but 
little  success.  His  purpose  soon  flagged,  and  he  went  on 
reading  the  names,  acquiescing  in  the  fact  that  he  forgot 
them  almost  before  his  eyes  had  travelled  the  last  letter. 
Then  he  paused  before  an  obscure  stationer's  in  the  hope 
that  he  would  find  displayed  in  the  window  some  of  the 
excessively  realistic  photographs  of  nude  women  which  are 
sold  in  these  places.  There  were  none.  He  was  rather 
horrified  at  himself,  and  it  tormented  him  to  think  that 
perhaps  after  all  it  was  his  real  self  that  desired  to  see 
obscene  pictures.  Perhaps  that  part  of  him  which  would 
thrust  such  impulses  down  was  unnatural.  He  did  not 
solve  the  problem ;  it  was  too  hard  for  him  to  be  quite 
honest,  but  before  it  passed  clean  away  from  his  mind  he 
was  convinced  that  the  desire  to  see  the  pictures  was  much 
more  real  and  vivid  than  his  will  to  repress  the  desire.  He 
wished  he  had  the  courage  of  his  true  self.  All  through  this 
minor  discussion  loomed  the  thought  that  he  had  something 
more  urgent  to  settle ;  but  it  was  misted  over,  almost 
comfortably,  by  the  abiding  sense  that  he  had  made  a 
triumphant  escape  from  the  concierge. 

After  a  while  he  noticed  an  element  of  strange  familiarity 
in  the  streets.  The  names  of  the  shops  were  half  remem- 
bered. He  came  on  to  a  square,  where  men  were  vigorously 
erecting  a  roundabout.  He  went  over  to  the  middle  of  the 
square  and  watched  them  from  close  by.  A  fat  pursy  man 
with  a  wet  underlip  and  a  profusion  of  unnatural  flesh 
directed  them.  His  nose  was  soft  and  flabby,  and  his  skin 
the  colour  of  a  chicken  trussed  and  yellow.  He  stood 
facing  Maurice  and  patted  a  rope  on  which  four  men  were 
hauling.  It  was  pleasant  that  they  paid  no  attention  to  the 
manager  at  all,  but  talked  and  laughed  in  gasps  among 
themselves.  The  fat  man  would  have  a  horrible  way  with 
women.  There  were  probably  women  in  the  show,  who 
must  loathe  him.  Maurice  caught  sight  of  one  with  a  thin 
face,  and  brown  hair  drawn  tightly  over  her  head,  standing 
in  the  background.  Her  neck  was  swathed  in  a  black  com- 


STILL  LIFE  363 

forter,  and  her  hands  were  in  the  pockets  of  a  long  grey 
overcoat,  for  all  the  world  like  the  coat  of  the  woman  from 
whom  he  ran  away.  She  would  have  a  horrible  time.  He 
turned  back  to  look  in  the  direction  whence  he  had  come. 
It  was  the  Place  Gervais.  He  glanced  quickly  at  the  name 
on  the  outspread  canopy  of  the  cafe  at  the  corner.  It  was 
the  Parthenon.  He  wondered  that  he  should  not  have 
recognised  this  familiar  place,  merely  because  he  had  come 
to  it  by  an  unfamiliar  way ;  and  he  slowly  retraced  his 
steps,  remembering  with  a  thrill  of  anticipation  a  restaurant 
near  by.  It  served  lunch  at  four  francs.  He  had  never 
dared  to  enter  it  before. 

As  he  sat  down  at  a  table  he  saw  that  few  people  were  at 
lunch,  and  those  for  the  most  part  within  easy  view  of  the 
end.  It  came  as  a  relief  therefore  when  the  waiter  came  to 
serve  him  without  visible  reluctance.  Three  other  people 
came  soon  after  him,  talking  loudly.  He  wondered,  as  he 
had  wondered  many  times  before,  that  insignificant 
business  men  with  plentiful  beards  and  unhealthy  faces, 
should  not  be  ashamed  to  talk  aloud  with  such  assurance 
in  public  places. 

He  sat  for  a  long  while  smoking  while  the  restaurant 
became  once  more  a  cafe,  and  the  brown  tables  reappeared 
from  under  their  white  cloths.  When  he  thought  of  Anne 
he  could  not  rid  himself  of  an  apprehension  that  he  might 
be  detected. 

Detected  in  what  ?  he  replied  victoriously,  but  the 
apprehension  lingered,  although  he  knew  there  was  no 
one  to  detect  him.  Supplied  with  a  directory,  he  searched 
for  the  Rue  Vauquelin.  He  meditated  over  the  little 
picture-map  in  the  margin  in  precarious  delight.  It  was  a 
very  long  way  distant.  Seventy-six  Rue  Vauquelin — the 
name  and  number  were  somehow  familiar.  Madeleine 
must  have  spoken  of  it  to  him.  While  he  turned  the  pages 
of  the  directory  with  aching  fingers,  he  had  an  uneasy  pre- 
monition of  physical  sickness,  that  brought  back  to  him  a 
memory  of  a  time  when  he  had  sat,  thus  perturbed,  in  a 


364  STILL  LIFE 

small  bar  in  the  Market,  turning  anxiously,  as  now,  the 
leaves  of  a  directory. 

The  morning  had  been  grey  and  chilly,  the  little  bar 
dingy,  the  waiter  tired  and  dishevelled,  the  flimsy  partition 
of  wood  and  glass  about  to  fall  at  a  touch,  it  seemed,  and 
the  grog  he  drank  lukewarm  and  sickly.  With  Madeleine 
he  had  just  been  to  the  general  post  office  in  the  vain 
attempt  to  cash  a  money  order  of  which  the  advice  had  gone 
astray.  How  he  had  hated  the  man  at  the  desk,  who  told 
him  he  must  go  to  yet  another  office,  for  his  abruptness, 
and  yet  he  shrank  under  it.  The  next  day  he  was  to  return 
to  England  ;  he  needed  the  money  for  his  journey.  Made- 
leine had  sat  by  him  in  the  bar  with  a  strained  and  serious 
face.  He  had  seen  when  she  had  stretched  out  her  hand  to 
show  him  the  office  in  the  directory,  how  tight  were  the 
muscles.  Then  she  had  found  the  bus  for  him,  a  bus  that 
went  forlornly  through  raw  streets  to  the  fortifications. 
She  had  refused  to  go  with  him.  "  Non,  je  ne  peux  pas." 
An  intense  and  torturing  purpose  showed  in  her  face  when 
she  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  half  pushed  and  half 
led  him  to  the  bus.  She  waved  to  him  with  her  small  muff, 
so  disproportionate  to  herself.  He  had  found  himself  at 
last  in  a  strange  land,  walking  through  long  streets  that 
seemed  to  be  all  builders'  fences  and  bare  iron  railway 
bridges,  topped  here  and  there  by  lanky  stone  buildings, 
new  and  already  stained.  He  remembered  the  impatient 
face  of  the  black-bloused  woman  at  the  desk,  because  he 
had  no  pieces  justificatifs  ;  and  then  while  he  looked  at  her 
in  despair  she  had  relented  and  been  gracious  to  him. 

He  read  the  names  of  those  who  lived  at  76  Rue  Vauque- 
lin — Madame  Schlegel  veuve,  BoifEard,  ingenieur,  Chern- 
inot,  Victor,  commissionaire,  Plimsoll,  Delamour,  docteur 
en  droit — and  speculated  which  of  these  might  be  Made- 
leine's friend.  He  was  sentimentally  inclined  to  Delamour, 
but  Delamour  was  docteur  en  droit. 

He  over-tipped  the  waiter  and  left  the  cafe.  The  round- 
about was  now  completed,  and  the  men  were  fixing  a 


STILL  LIFE  365 

raised  platform  round  it,  with  little  flights  of  stairs.  With 
no  definite  intention  he  walked  by  the  hotel  where  he  stayed 
at  the  time  he  first  met  Madeleine  ;  but  he  turned  away 
suddenly,  for  inside  the  door  lolled  the  short,  red-haired 
gar$on  as  of  old.  The  sight  shook  him,  and  he  passed  agent 
after  agent  without  pausing,  before  he  accosted  one  nervously 
and  asked  the  way  to  the  Rue  Vauquelin.  The  police- 
man looked  dutifully  in  his  little  book,  before  replying.  If 
Maurice  continued  up  the  street  he  would  come  to  the 
trams,  and  if  he  took  one  of  those  to  the  Place  de  Serbie, 
he  would  be  quite  near.  He  had  only  to  ask  again.  As  he 
went  on  his  way,  Maurice  thought  of  writing  a  letter  ;  but 
the  answer,  if  there  was  an  answer,  would  come  to  the 
hotel.  Besides,  there  would  be  no  answer.  He  asked  him- 
self why  then  he  did  not  take  a  cab,  and  he  answered  sin- 
cerely that  it  would  be  too  certain  and  too  sudden  if  he 
took  a  cab.  In  such  deliberations  he  wasted  many  minutes 
before  he  boarded  the  tram.  Once,  indeed,  he  turned  about 
and  walked  back  the  way  he  had  come,  but  after  a  hundred 
yards  his  step  slackened  and  halted  in  front  of  a  coiffeur's 
window  in  which  he  had  no  interest ;  and  then  he  walked 
slowly  back  again. 

As  the  tram  swung  swiftly  along  between  the  screeching 
of  brakes  at  the  halts,  he  found  a  certain  inevitability  in 
the  motion.  It  may  have  frightened  him ;  but  it  was 
welcome,  too.  Two  schoolboys  chattered  energetically 
behind  him,  laughing  noisily.  A  woman  in  a  black  shawl, 
holding  a  basket  in  one  hand  and  her  keys  in  the  other, 
waited  stolidly  for  her  destination.  It  was  wonderful  that 
the  journey  should  have  no  particular  significance  for  her. 
Perhaps  she  was  right  and  he  was  wrong.  Perhaps  he  was 
in  some  sort  insane.  He  took  pride  in  the  fact  that  he  must 
be  of  different  stuff  to  the  rest ;  but  his  feeling  of  pride 
would  not  swallow  up  the  apprehension  which  crept  over 
him  as  he  came  near  the  Place  de  Serbie. 

It  was  deserted,  save  for  a  few  people  who  descended 
from  the  train  with  him,  and  a  few  who  walked  on  the 


366  STILL  LIFE 

surrounding  pavements,  small  and  almost  indistinguish- 
able in  the  distance.  Though  his  agitation  would  not 
subside  enough  to  allow  him  to  choose  surely  between 
different  lines  of  action,  he  strove  to  consider  what  he 
would  do  if  he  went  to  seventy-six.  He  would  find  out 
from  the  concierge  whether  Madeleine  was  living  there. 
If  she  was  there  .  .  .  then  he  would  go  away.  But  the 
woman  in  the  Rue  Valette  had  said  that  she  was  not  living 
there,  and  that  appeared  to  him  to  be  true.  If  she  was  not 
there,  he  could  find  out  where  she  had  gone ;  but  the 
concierge  would  not  know.  She  would  only  have  been 
staying  with  somebody.  Then  it  was  impossible — im- 
possible to  go  to  the  people  with  whom  she  had  been  stay- 
ing and  ask  them.  They  would  know  who  he  was.  They 
might  recognise  him,  for  they  had  never  seen  him  before, 
but  they  would  know.  He  could  not  contemplate  the 
thought ;  but  he  went  to  a  cheap  bar  and  drank  a  tasteless 
marc,  in  order  to  ask  for  the  Rue  Vauquelin  with  some 
fresh  confidence,  not  with  the  confidence  of  drink  in  which 
he  had  never  learned  to  trust,  but  of  having  paid  for  the 
information.  He  asked  the  man  who  served  him  on  the 
zinc,  busy  with  wiping  glasses;  and  his  question  was 
answered  by  the  woman  who  sat  severely  over  the  tobacco. 
But  her  manner  was  quite  kindly  when  she  informed  him 
that  it  was  quite  near,  a  matter  of  two  turnings  and  five 
minutes'  walk.  She  even  smiled  at  him  when  he  thanked 
her,  while  she  rearranged  her  shawl.  It  had  been  disturbed 
by  her  outstretched  arm. 

As  he  went  along  he  decided  not  to  wait  outside  the  door 
before  entering.  That  would  unnerve  him  completely,  and 
this  time  he  might  not  enter  at  all.  The  grey  walls  of  a 
barracks  covered  with  strips  of  posters  downtorn  in  execu- 
tion of  the  unconfident  "  defense  d'qfficher"  and  a  closed 
kiosk,  that  could  never  have  been  opened,  were  the  inter- 
ludes in  the  two  monotonous  streets  along  which  he  passed. 
The  end  of  the  second  plunged  him  directly  upon  number 
seventy-six.  He  had  not  been  prepared  for  that,  but  he 


STILL  LIFE  367 

carried  out  his  plan  with  a  timid  assurance,  and  knocked 
at  the  concierge's  door.  She  was  not  there.  The  whole 
house  was  comparatively  new  and  cheerlessly  clean.  He 
trusted  nervously  in  inspiration  what  he  should  say  when 
the  concierge  did  come,  for  he  could  frame  nothing  while 
he  waited.  She  came  out  of  the  courtyard,  looking  un- 
expectedly young,  but  rather  florid.  She  dropped  a  key, 
and  plunged  down  to  pick  it  up,  before  passing  under  the 
archway. 

"  Does  Mademoiselle  de  Pene  live  here  ?  "  He  said  the 
words  abruptly,  with  the  last  gasp  of  his  falling  courage. 

"  She's  gone.    You  have  a  message  for  her  ?  " 

"  No.  ...  I  wanted  to  see  her,  herself  .  .  .  something  im- 
portant." 

"  Impossible.    She  has  left  Paris.  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say,  but  he  managed  to  make 
his  look  one  of  deliberate  reflection. 

"  Then  I  must  send  a  telegram.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  know  the 
address." 

"  Neither  do  I.    She  was  not  one  of  the  localaires." 

"  But  what  can  I  do,  madame  ?  "  he  asked  in  an  access 
of  helplessness.  She  kept  silence  until  she  finally  said  : 

"  She  lived  with  Madame  Delamour,  au  troisieme.  You 
can  go  and  ask  her." 

"  I  shall  disturb  her  ?  " 

"  That's  your  affair." 

The  woman  laughed,  not  unfriendly.  He  thanked  her 
and  opened  the  door  on  to  the  stairs.  Out  of  her  sight,  on 
the  first  story,  he  decided  to  wait  some  minutes,  and  then 
to  leave  as  though  he  had  found  out  the  address  from 
Madame  Delamour.  He  waited  one  minute  in  suspense. 
The  bell  of  the  door  below  sounded  and  someone  began  to 
ascend  the  stairs,  whistling  Sur  les  Fonts  de  Paris.  Maurice 
went  up  the  stairs  slowly.  The  steps  behind  would  neither 
overtake  him  nor  stop.  He  saw  the  brass  plate  on  the  door 
— Etienne  Delamour.  Docteur  en  Droit — and  went  past. 
On  the  landing  above  he  stopped  perforce.  It  was  the  top 


368  STILL  LIFE 

of  the  house  save  for  a  narrow  gallery  slung  high  in  air, 
which  could  lead  only  to  a  single  door.  Holding  himself 
perfectly  still,  Maurice  heard  the  steps  halt,  a  key  turn  in 
a  lock,  and  the  whistling  suddenly  ceased  as  the  door 
latched.  That  must  have  been  Monsieur  Delamour.  He 
was  very  glad  he  had  not  waited  in  front  of  his  flat.  He 
came  down  slowly,  stopped  in  front  of  the  door,  and  pulled 
at  the  red  cord  of  the  bell. 

Sur  les  Fonts  de  Paris  approached.  The  temptation  to 
run  away  was  great,  but  the  quick  thought  that  there  was 
no  time,  that  the  whole  house  would  hear  his  steps  as  he 
clattered  down  the  three  stories,  enabled  him  to  stand 
his  ground.  The  man,  black  with  a  thin  curled  black 
moustache,  was  plainly  surprised. 

"  I  wish  to  know  the  present  address  of  Mademoiselle 
de  la  Pene." 

"  I  will  call  my  wife,"  the  man  said,  all  but  closing  the 
door.  Maurice  heard  him  call  her  by  a  name  he  could  not 
catch — it  sounded  like  "  Broua  " — and  speak  a  word  with 
her.  She  came  to  the  door,  opened  it  wide  and  said, 
"  Come  in." 

He  began  to  say  "  Je  voudrais  seulement  .  .  .,"  but  he 
could  not  avoid  entering.  She  ushered  him  into  the  salon, 
a  tiny  room,  curtained  to  suffocation,  ticked  by  a  mon- 
strous clock.  As  she  followed  him  into  the  room,  he  found 
something  familiar  in  her  face,  with  its  thin  black  eyebrows 
and  pinched  nose,  even  in  the  high  black  collar  of  her 
blouse.  He  thought  that  he  could  detect  recognition  in  her 
look. 

"  I  wished  to  know  the  address  of  Mademoiselle  De  la 
Pene.  I  hope  that  I  do  not  disturb  you  ;  but  the  concierge 
could  not  tell  me.  She  said  I  might  find  it  from  you." 

"  Would  you  please  tell  me  your  name  ?  " 

Foolishly  he  had  not  expected  the  question.  He  dared 
not  hesitate  with  his  answer.  "  My  name  is  Monsieur 
French,"  he  said,  glib  with  sudden  inspiration.  An  instinct 
that  he  must  not  reveal  his  name  had  come  to  him. 


STILL  LIFE  369 

With  it  came  an  intolerable  desire  to  see  Madeleine  once 
more. 

:<  You'll  pardon  me,  but  I  am  her  sister.  Before  she 
left  she  told  me  not  to  give  her  address  to  certain  people. 
Vous  etes  Anglais,  peut-etre  ?  " 

He  told  an  unexpected  he,  smiling.  "  Non.  Je  suis 
Irlandais,"  he  said.  "  C'est  autre  chose." 

"  I  will  write  the  address  for  you."  She  went  over  to  a 
table  by  the  window.  While  she  looked  for  paper  she  said, 
casually,  with  her  back  turned  to  him : 

"  You  have  known  my  sister  for  a  long  while  ?  " 

"  I  met  her  three  years  ago.  ...  I  was  in  Paris  with  a 
friend  who  knew  her  well." 

"  She  never  spoke  to  me  of  you.  That  is  why  I  asked, 
Monsieur  F  .  .  ." 

"  French,"  he  explained. 

"  Monsieur  French,"  she  repeated.  She  turned  round 
in  her  chair  suddenly. 

"  What  was  his  name,  your  friend  ?  " 

"  Temple,"  said  Maurice  unhesitating.  "  .  .  .  He  was 
English." 

"  I  know  that  name,"  she  said. 

"  It's  a  sad  story.  ..."  As  he  spoke  he  felt  unutterably 
sad. 

"  You  have  news  of  him  ?  "  Against  the  light  he  could 
hardly  see  her  face.  Vaguely  she  seemed  to  him  divided 
between  severity  and  pity. 

"He  is  dead.  .  .  .  That  is  why  I  wanted  to  find  the 
address." 

"  Oh,  la  pauvre,  la  pauvre  petite.  .  .  ."  said  Madame 
Delamour. 

"  He  died  two  years  ago,"  Maurice  continued.  Desola- 
tion swept  over  him  at  his  own  words.  They  seemed  to 
wither  him.  He  was  crying.  But  he  went  on  slowly. 

"  ...  He  was  Madeleine's  lover.  You  know,  I  suppose. 
But  I  was  the  only  one  of  all  his  friends  who  knew  about  it. 
I  was  with  him  when  he  first  saw  her.  After  that,  about 
2  B 


370  STILL  LIFE 

three  months  afterwards,  I  went  away  to  America.  I  was 
travelling  about  everywhere,  and  I  did  not  get  any  letters. 
When  I  came  back,  six  weeks  ago,  I  found  a  letter  from 
Maurice  saying  that  he  was  going  to  kill  himself.  ...  He 
had  killed  himself,  a  year  ago.  His  family  would  not  hear 
of  his  marrying,  and  without  them  he  had  no  money.  .  .  . 
In  his  letter  he  told  me  to  find  Madeleine,  and  to  give  her 
all  the  money  he  had.  It's  not  very  much — six  hundred 
francs." 

"  And  she  loved  him  all  the  while,"  said  Madame  Dela- 
mour.  "...  Only  he  never  wrote.  It  broke  her  heart. 
. .  .  You  would  not  recognise  her  now. ...  I  said  to  her  that 
perhaps  he  was  dead  ;  but  she  always  said  '  no,'  but  that 
it  was  his  mother  who  would  not  let  him  write,  and  would 
not  let  him  come  to  her.  ...  I  was  right.  ..."  She  was 
crying,  too.  "  It  is  sad,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  why  I  wish  to  go  to  her  myself,"  said  Maurice. 
"  He  sent  me  a  letter  which  I  was  to  take  to  her  myself,  if 
I  could.  .  .  .  But  it's  two  years  ago.  ...  I  must  take  it.  ... 
You  understand  ?  " 

"  Naturally.  ...  It  will  be  a  sad  journey  for  you.  .  . .  She 
has  thought  of  him  always  .  .  .  always.  She  thinks  of  him 
now,  of  nothing  else.  I  have  not  been  able  to  prevent  her. 
She  should  not  have  stayed  in  Paris.  She  had  so  very  little 
money.  It's  a  hard  life  as  a  modiste  here,  you  know.  .  .  . 
But  now  she  has  gone  home  to  the  South.  .  .  .  It's  a  long 
way  from  here,  not  far  from  Bordeaux,  on  the  main  railway 
line.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  write  first.  I  could 
write  her  a  word  myself." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  I  went.  That  is  what  his 
letter  said.  I  will  go  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  get  there  before 
the  letter  would.  ...  In  any  case  I  think  it  would  be  better 
not  to  write." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right.  Here  is  the  address,  Mon- 
sieur." Before  giving  him  the  slip  of  paper  she  read 
it  aloud.  "  Mademoiselle  de  la  Pene,  rue  Gambetta, 
Lesdigues,  Correze." 


STILL  LIFE  371 

"  Is  there  no  number  ?  " 

"  No  ...  it  is  only  a  village ;  but  there  is  a  railway 
station." 

"  I  thank  you."  Maurice  rose.  As  he  said  "  Good-bye  " 
Madame  Delamour  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  When  he 
took  it,  she  said,  "  You  must  tell  her  softly.  It  is  a  thing 
that  can  kill."  He  saw  that  she  was  near  to  crying.  With 
her  before  him,  tall  black  collar,  little  mouth,  long  thin 
nose,  and  hair  &  la  Bernhardt,  he  believed  it  all.  On  an 
impulse  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her  hand.  It  was  a 
gesture  he  had  often  wished  to  accomplish,  but  for  which 
his  courage  had  always  failed  him.  In  another  room  on 
the  door  of  which  another  brass  plate  shone  faintly  through 
the  gloom  of  the  corridor,  he  heard  Monsieur  Delamour 
whistling  Sur  les  Fonts  de  Paris. 

Passing  downstairs  he  was  thrilled  with  confused  excite- 
ment. He  was  silent  and  sad  at  his  own  death.  He  glowed 
with  the  triumph  of  his  inspiration.  Hardly  he  could  tell 
which  was  the  truth.  Slowly  from  the  turmoil  emerged  a 
sense  of  achievement.  More  than  achievement,  he  reflected, 
for  he  was  now  certain  that  Madeleine  had  forbidden  her 
sister  to  give  him  her  address.  It  was  a  miracle  of  achieve- 
ment. 

The  spring  wind,  as  it  scattered  old  newspapers  along 
the  street,  blew  a  grey  chill,  as  from  the  walls  it  grazed, 
into  his  heart.  Sooner  or  later,  Madeleine  would  be  told 
that  he  was  dead.  It  would  be  terrible  if  she  believed  him 
dead.  Better  believe  that,  came  a  grotesque  echo,  than 
that  you  are  alive.  He  would  have  none  of  the  echo.  He 
wanted  her  to  be  thinking  of  him  still,  always  thinking  of 
him,  and  himself  to  be  alive.  Madame  Delamour's  assur- 
ance that  she  had  always  thought  of  him  salved  his  pride  ; 
but  he  could  not  believe  it  was  his  pride  that  was  assuaged. 

And  so  it  comforted  him  that  he  carried  Madeleine's 
address  in  his  pocket ;  for  it  gave  him  a  dim  confidence  in 
setting  matters  right  by  writing  to  her.  By  the  time  that 
he  had  found  a  place  in  the  returning  tram,  he  felt  guilty. 


372  STILL  LIFE 

He  was  afflicted  by  the  knowledge  that  he  had  done  some- 
thing wrong,  for  which  there  was  no  excuse.  The  faster 
the  tram  sped  towards  his  familiar  ground,  the  more  the 
crookedness  of  his  day  presented  itself  to  him.  It  was  an 
instinctive  conviction,  unrelated  to  any  person.  He  was 
approaching  the  hotel  and  Anne.  His  only  concern  was 
that  he  should  not  betray  himself  by  any  awkwardness  in 
his  behaviour.  His  love  for  Anne  was  not  affected  by  what 
he  had  done,  and  it  was  really  preposterous  that  he  should 
have  to  guard  his  behaviour,  because  of  an  unmeaning 
pretence.  He  wondered  whether  it  would  be  more  con- 
vincing to  be  forward  with  an  account  of  an  imaginary  day 
or  to  say  nothing  at  all  until  he  was  asked.  Inclining  to- 
wards saying  nothing  at  all,  he  postponed  the  problem. 
Nor  was  any  harm  done  to  Madeleine.  On  the  contrary, 
if  she  believed  him  dead,  it  would  probably  be  a  good  deal 
better  for  her,  seeing  that  an  ideal  would  have  been  pre- 
served to  her.  Arguments,  visions  of  Anne  and  Madeleine 
tempested  together  ;  but  the  knowledge  of  guilt  remained 
to  make  him  uneasy. 

What  on  earth  did  he  do  it  for  ?  he  began  to  ask  himself, 
and  he  could  find  no  answer.  Well,  it  was  done,  he  thought, 
and  it  was  no  use  wishing  it  undone,  and  if  it  was  any  use 
to  wish,  he  would  not  have  had  it  undone.  He  had,  in  some 
way,  approached  nearer  to  Madeleine  thereby,  and  he 
wanted  that.  But  he  had  enough.  He  crumpled  the  paper 
Madame  Delamour  had  given  him,  and  threw  it  out  of  the 
window ;  but  he  knew  very  well  that  he  could  not  forget 
the  address. 

Anne  was  the  only  problem,  and  that  was  only  a  question 
of  the  manner  in  which  he  met  her.  He  recollected  that 
she  was  going  to  tea  with  Etheredge,  and  fervently  hoped 
that  she  had  not  repented  of  her  intention.  If  she  had  not 
she  would  be  at  Etheredge's  still.  The  woman  at  the  hotel 
bureau  anticipated  his  asking. 

"  Madame  has  gone  out  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"  And  Monsieur  Beauchamp — mon  ami  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  373 

"  He  did  not  return  last  night ;  and  he  has  not  been  in 
all  day." 

"  He  met  some  of  his  friends  last  night.  What  could  you 
expect  ?  "  He  was  on  comfortable  terms  with  this  lady. 

"  C'est  dommage,  parfois — des  amis,"  she  said  reflec- 
tively. 

"  Vous  croyez  ?  C'est  une  espece  tres  rare,  tout  de 
meme." 

"  £a  c'est  vrai,"  she  said  in  the  same  tone. 

It  was  warm  in  the  sitting-room,  and  the  lights  were 
warmly  shaded.  He  ordered  tea  with  some  prospect  of 
enjoyment.  When  the  waiter  had  left  the  room  he  in- 
spected himself  in  the  mirror,  anxious  to  see  that  no  start- 
ling, self-revealing  change  had  occurred.  He  half-expected 
it.  Curious  why  Dennis  had  not  come  back,  he  went  to 
peep  in  his  room  and  found  that  the  door  was  locked. 
"  Naturally,"  he  said  to  himself  and  settled  in  an  armchair. 
Turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  big  time-table  in  an  idle 
search  to  find  where  Lesdigues  might  really  be  situated,  he 
waited,  in  a  hazy  fatigue,  but  not  uncomfortably,  the 
arrival  of  the  ordered  tea. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  door  clicked  softly  when  Maurice  left  the  room  in  the 
morning.  "  Finis  to  that  chapter,"  said  Anne  to  herself. 
Though  she  was  sad  and  weary,  the  click  of  the  self-closing 
latch  seemed  to  her  such  a  ridiculous  end.  "  The  death  of 
tragedy,"  she  said  aloud,  putting  her  hands  behind  her 
head  and  closing  her  eyes  as  she  lay  upon  her  back.  No 
heroic  emotions  rioted  in  her  soul.  Instead  she  felt  empty. 
A  living  pulse  which  controlled  her  being  and  made  her  one, 
had  ceased  to  act.  She  found  herself  smiling  when  she  had 
no  cause  to  smile,  fastening  upon  words  and  incidents, 
when  not  they,  but  the  bigger  event  of  which  they  were  the 
outward  fringe,  were  important.  "  Well,  well,"  she  said. 

If  that  was  the  natural  motion  of  her  soul,  there  was 
nothing  better  than  to  yield  to  it.  A  cloud  of  doubts, 
anxieties,  apprehensions,  hung  very  close  to  her ;  but 
there  was  no  contact  between  her  and  them.  In  her  mood 
she  was  free  of  such  perturbations,  free  of  all  things  save 
that  persistent  throb  of  physical  pain  in  her  breast. 

Then  thoughts  began  to  assail  her.  She  tried  to  see  the 
beginning  and  end  of  the  story  ;  and,  while  old  emotions 
came  back  to  vivid  life,  she  wondered  whether  she  had  ever 
been  really  in  love  with  Maurice.  Steadily  she  answered 
herself  "  No."  But  she  had  been  at  the  beginning  of  love  ; 
she  had  spread  the  ground  with  palms  before  it ;  she  had 
waited  for  love.  She  had  waited  for  love,  and  how  could 
it  come  to  a  woman  who  waited  for  it  ?  She  had  been  too 
conscious ;  she  would  pay  for  it  now,  by  waiting.  This 
was  only  her  end,  not  his,  and  she  would  wait  until  he  made 
an  end.  She  could  not ;  she  wanted  to  be  cleanly  free. 
He  should  leave  her  of  his  ov»n  deliberate  choice,  and 

3/4 


STILL  LIFE  375 

finally.  "  How  can  you  treat  him  so  ?  "  came  the  reply, 
"  It's  only  cruelty."  She  denied  the  charge.  Maurice  was 
himself,  hard,  impenetrable,  alone  ;  he  could  work  out  his 
own  destiny.  He  was  no  burden  on  her  conscience  now. 
Her  mind  thought  clear  of  him.  Her  feelings  had  been 
bruised  where  they  touched  him,  and  were  insensible. 

Her  mind  turned  towards  the  future  and  was  afraid. 
She  was  lonely  again,  and  in  her  loneliness  weaker  than  of 
old.  She  peered  about  in  the  shadows  for  what  might  come. 
Love — a  tightness  in  her  throat,  a  sudden  upburst  of  tears 
in  her  eyes,  came  as  the  unsought  accompaniment  of  her 
thought — was  a  beautiful,  futile  thing  ;  like  the  bird  in  the 
pagan  king's  story,  which  flew  out  of  the  darkness  across 
the  lighted  window  and  returned  to  the  darkness  again. 
She  revolted  against  this  temporary  thing,  and  longed  for 
a  permanent  thing  beyond  it,  whence  she  might  derive  a 
strength  to  maintain  herself  against  the  life  which  brutally 
beat  against  her.  Strong  and  permanent — the  very  words 
seemed  to  laugh  at  her,  at  this  moment  when  she  was  at 
the  mercy  of  life  again.  She  thought  of  the  barren  years, 
the  weak  years  when  she  had  been  with  Jim,  when  she  had 
come  to  expect  nothing  of  life  and  to  fear  nothing.  Never 
could  she  return  to  that  condition.  Now  she  expected 
much  and  feared  much. 

When  would  the  last  remains  of  this ~old  "affection  be 
gone  ?  She  was  waiting  for  Maurice  to  act,  and  in  the 
waiting-space  she  was  empty  and  dead.  How  could  she 
wait  thus  calculating  ?  It  was  cruel  to  him  perhaps,  but 
more  cruel  to  her  ;  and  it  was  not  calculation,  but  some 
instinct  which  bade  her  wait.  Calculation  !  How  could 
she  calculate  ?  Her  memory  throbbed  with  the  pain  of 
intimate  memories ;  her  breast  seemed  to  ache  for  his 
pillowed  head,  and  her  hands  for  the  feel  of  his  rough  hair. 
Wait,  wait !  She  could  not  suffer  more  ;  she  had  suffered 
too  much — and  to  wait.  She  buried  her  head  in  her 
pillow. 

The  inertia  that  gradually  invaded  her  while  she  lay 


376  STILL  LIFE 

still  was  welcome.  Her  thoughts  were  muffled  and  dumb 
when  they  came  to  her.  Having  once  resigned  control  of 
herself,  she  was  again  natural  and  free  in  her  waking  sleep  ; 
and  she  wondered  how  it  could  be  that  she  should  accept 
her  sundering  from  Maurice  as  a  natural  thing.  Already 
she  seemed  to  have  passed  beyond  it ;  and  it  had  cost  her 
no  more  than  that.  In  a  mood  of  vague  wonderment  she 
fell  asleep,  and  slept  into  the  afternoon. 

Waking,  she  was  perplexed ;  and  then  she  worried  about 
the  time.  For  some  reason  she  was  eager  not  to  fail  Miss 
Etheredge.  When  she  found  it  was  no  more  than  twenty 
minutes  past  three,  she  dressed  carefully  and  descended 
into  the  dining-room. 

While  she  ate  mechanically,  with  a  kind  of  amazement 
at  the  character  of  her  occupation,  she  was  consumed  with 
an  impatience  to  see  Miss  Etheredge.  The  engagement 
was  solid  and  definite,  amid  the  ineffectual  chaos  of  her 
mind.  More  than  that  she  wanted  to  see  Miss  Etheredge 
for  herself.  In  spite  of  her  weakness  and  inward  anarchy, 
by  which  Anne  had  at  first  been  almost  persuaded  to 
regard  her  as  one  of  her  own  possible  selves,  remotely  past, 
Etheredge  was  positive  and  achieved.  Anne  pitied  her  ; 
yet  she  repelled  pity,  and  seemed  to  demand  a  more  equal 
approach.  Anne  could  have  made  many  explanations  of 
Etheredge.  She  made  some  while  she  sat  in  the  empty 
dining-room,  outlasting  the  creeping  minutes,  and  each, 
she  felt,  had  some  truth.  They  were  built  upon  the  scheme 
of  strong  sensuality  in  incessant  conflict  with  a  deeply 
native  virginity  ;  but  always  beyond  the  explanation  was 
Etheredge's  power.  She  was  not  futile  nor  was  she  pitiful. 
It  was  no  excess  of  pity  which  had  so  affected  Anne  at  their 
meeting  yesterday.  Anne  could  hardly  give  an  account  of 
her  feelings  ;  she  was  in  no  mood  for  that :  but  she  knew 
that  an  instinctive  repulsion  had  worked  side  by  side  with 
an  intimate  attraction.  She  might  have  been  fronting 
some  strange  woman  from  the  immemorial  East.  The 
figure  of  Etheredge  now  rose  constantly  before  her  eyes  in 


STILL  LIFE  377 

the  closer  memory  wherein  thought  is  only  a  haze  to 
obscure  all  definite  vision. 

Thus  as  Anne  slowly  walked  out  of  the  hotel,  on  the  way 
talking  for  a  moment  with  the  woman  in  the  bureau,  her 
mind  was,  without  any  direction  of  her  own,  intent  upon 
Miss  Etheredge.  Even  the  slowness  of  her  walk  might 
have  been  due  rather  to  a  natural  response  to  the  nature  of 
the  attraction  than  to  her  own  desire.  Indeed,  she  had  no 
cause  to  linger.  The  people  of  Paris  had  never  been  so 
profoundly  strange  and  alien  to  her.  They  glided  by  her 
like  material  phantoms,  until  she  was  borne  onwards  out 
of  the  eddy  of  her  momentary  delay  by  a  dim  purpose, 
which  left  her,  unsurprised,  at  the  corner  of  a  street  which 
she  had  never  seen  before.  Though  her  information  had 
been  vague  and  was  now  forgotten,  she  knew  that  this  was 
the  street  she  sought.  She  turned  round  and  watched  in  a 
dream  the  thin  wisps  of  mist  slowly  moving  from  the  face 
of  the  river,  and  their  place  supplied  by  other  sweeping 
white  threads.  The  quay,  the  open  book-boxes,  the  little 
sprouting  trees,  whose  round  tops  were  each  like  one  large 
straggling  bud,  the  estraded  pavement  with  its  iron  rail, 
and  across  the  Seine  the  long  mass  of  crouching  buildings 
like  some  misshapen  animal — these  were  canvas  decora- 
tions. They  had  no  solid  reality  to  support  them.  She 
alone  was  real,  in  a  way  she  could  not  comprehend.  She 
was  foreign  to  herself  now,  and  through  her  mind  ran  a 
thin  vein  of  self-suspicion,  or  doubt  that  this  Anne  whom 
she  did  not  know,  could  truly  be,  as  she  felt,  more  real  than 
the  Anne  she  knew. 

She  was  looking  at  a  long  shop-window  opposite,  filled 
with  prints.  It  was  only  a  background  to  the  little  sil- 
houettes of  people  hurrying  along  before  it,  not  intent  with 
real  purpose  as  she,  but  propelled  by  some  giant  mechanism. 
One  of  them  retained  her  look  for  more  than  a  glance.  Her 
eyes  followed  it  slowly,  for  it  moved  more  slowly  than  the 
rest.  Then  it  was  familiar.  That  did  not  suffice  to  lift 
it  out  of  the  unreal  procession  :  but  it  gave  it  an  interest, 


378  STILL  LIFE 

as  one  more  grotesque  figure  than  the  rest  might  hold  the 
attention  in  a  marionette-show.  More,  its  familiarity  had 
an  indefinable  tweak  and  was  suddenly  unfamiliar.  He 
went  with  head  bent  towards  the  ground,  with  one  or  two 
stiff  motions  of  his  arms,  which  contrasted  with  the  dragging 
gait,  and  so  disappeared  round  the  corner  by  the  shop.  All 
the  while  Anne  had  known  it  was  Dennis  ;  but  the  know- 
ledge could  not  be  translated  into  meaning.  They  might 
have  been  two  planets  on  their  courses,  meeting  for  a 
moment  in  an  eternity.  But  the  twist  of  sudden  strange- 
ness intruded  upon  her  a  question,  as  it  were  an  arabesque 
inscrutably  entwined  in  some  far  edge  of  her  mind,  a  point 
of  irritation.  She  remembered  with  surprise  when  and 
where  she  left  him,  how  long  ago  it  was  ;  and  in  the  interval 
he  had  changed.  "  Something  has  happened  to  him." 
The  interest  of  a  passing  curiosity  was  awakened  in  her. 
It  was  still  engaging  some  disconnected  working  of  her 
mind,  when  she  passed  inside  the  door  of  number  twenty- 
three,  rue  Sevigne". 

The  passage  was  long  and  dark,  lined  with  glazed  tiles 
which  reflected  no  more  than  the  obscurity  they  bounded. 
Her  sudden  glance  perceived  the  dark  light  of  a  glazed 
double  door.  There  seemed  to  be  no  exit.  Nevertheless, 
she  went  forward  without  pausing,  resolved  to  ask  no 
direction  from  the  concierge,  who  must,  she  knew,  be  loom- 
ing in  the  darkness  beyond.  The  clatter  of  the  swing-doors 
as  she  passed  through  served  to  hasten  her  steps  to  the  top 
of  the  first  flight  of  narrow  stairs,  where  she  was  beyond 
the  range  of  the  janitor.  Then  she  mounted  slowly,  gravely 
inspecting  the  names  upon  the  doors.  The  brown  of  in- 
describable varnish,  feebly  glancing  the  rays  of  the  chill 
sun,  dirtied  in  their  reflected  passage  down  the  well  of  the 
courtyard  and  through  the  dusky  panes  of  the  stairlight, 
was  only  the  sordid  and  evitable  edge  of  her  dream.  The 
grimy  red  bell-rope,  that  dangled  a  tarnished  and  incon- 
gruous splendour  beside  the  door  where  a  thumbed  card, 
pinned  askew,  told  her  to  stop,  soiled  her  white  glove  when 


STILL  LIFE  379 

she  pulled.  The  sharp  clangour  of  the  bell  after  the  rusty 
whisper  of  the  wire,  sounding  close  by  instead  of  in  a 
muffled  distance,  startled  her.  She  looked  at  the  dust- 
marks  on  her  gloves,  as  at  something  incomprehensible, 
while  she  waited. 

A  sound  of  shuffling  feet,  a  voice  pitched  uncertainly 
between  nervous  laughter  and  exclamation,  came  to  her. 
The  latch  was  drawn  with  an  exaggerated  click  and  the 
door  opened  a  little  way.  The  opening  was  wholly  filled 
by  a  narrow  glimpse  of  Miss  Etheredge,  clothed  in  some 
hardly  visible  stripes,  turned  half  away  as  though  she  were 
talking  to  someone  behind  her.  A  curious  expression 
showed  in  her  face.  It  had  something  of  mincing  shyness 
and  of  false  embarrassment ;  but  her  dark  eyes,  intensely 
black  in  the  surrounding  half-lights,  regarded  Anne 
steadily. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it  ?  Do  come  in.  ...  I'm  not  at  all 
dressed." 

She  backed  her  legs  behind  the  door  in  her  affectation  of 
shyness,  and  laughed,  in  a  tiny,  explosive,  inconsequent 
way. 

It  was  some  while  before  she  opened  the  door  enough  for 
Anne  to  attempt  to  enter.  Miss  Etheredge  stood  in  the 
corner  by  the  door,  holding  a  striped  blanket  about  herself, 
clad  beneath  in  pyjamas. 

While  she  held  out  her  hand  to  Anne,  she  seemed  to  hold 
back  her  body,  so  that  the  gesture  was  incongruous, 
strangely  compounded  of  big  and  little,  attractive  and 
repellent.  The  accent  of  her  greeting  was  elaborate. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Cradock  ?  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  that  you  wouldn't  come,  or  I  would  have  been 
dressed,  and  done  something  to  the— studio.  .  .  ."  Her 
voice  suddenly  changed,  became  quicker  and  unelaborate. 
"  But  I'm  glad  you've  come.  I  was  certain  you  wouldn't." 

As  she  watched  her,  Anne  longed  to  put  her  arms  round 
her  neck.  Then  the  bigness  of  the  woman  before  her 
penetrated  to  her  mind,  and  she  6\ ailed. 


350  STILL  LIFE 

"  Why  did  you  think  I  wouldn't  come  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you'd  forget — something  like  that.  .  .  .  We 
made  the  arrangement  very  quickly  after  all.  I  didn't 
take  it  quite  seriously  myself.  .  .  .  You  haven't  brought 
Temple  with  you  ...  he  wouldn't  come  ?  "  The  question 
asserted  the  fact. 

"  No.    He  didn't  want  to." 

Miss  Etheredge  gathered  herself  together  out  of  her 
corner,  and  led  the  way  into  a  long  low  room,  littered  with 
papers,  chaotic  with  tumbled  canvases,  the  mantel-mirror 
insecurely  placarded  with  drawings  and  cards.  A  dirty 
sun-blind,  hanging  unseasonably  low  outside  the  window 
that  looked  on  to  the  well,  obscured  everything.  In  the 
greater  gloom  at  the  end  of  the  room,  through  the  space 
where  once  had  been  a  wide  door,  was  a  cushioned  seat 
against  the  wall,  encompassing  on  three  sides  a  marble- 
topped  table  from  some  derelict  cafe. 

"  It's  the  only  place  to  sit  down — the  only  decent  place." 

Anne  made  her  way  to  it. 

"  My  God — it  is  in  a  mess,"  said  Miss  Etheredge. 

She  took  a  yellow  paper  of  cigarettes  from  the  mantel- 
piece and  sat  down  opposite  Anne.  The  cigarettes  she 
spread  upon  the  table  between  them,  and  lighted  one  for 
herself,  waiting  till  the  blue  flame  of  the  sulphur  match 
changed  into  white.  Anne  would  not  smoke.  Though  she 
watched  Miss  Etheredge,  the  gloom  was  such  that  only  in 
the  brief  moment  of  the  yellow  flame,  could  she  see  her 
plainly.  Then  her  lips  appeared  to  be  tight  pressed,  and 
her  eyes  full  of  tears.  But  Anne  remembered  that  this  was 
the  permanent  aspect  of  her  eyes,  and  waited. 

"  You're  not  in  a  hurry  for  tea  ?  I've  put  the  kettle  on  ; 
but  it  takes  a  long  while.  Something's  wrong  with  the 
gas.  .  .  .  Not  much  of  a  place  to  live  in,  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  rather  dark,"  said  Anne. 

"  Yes.  ...  I  dare  say  it  suits  me  though." 

The  memory  of  her  encounter  at  the  corner  of  the  street 
pressed  upon  Anne.  She  made  her  discovery  aloud. 


STILL  LIFE  381 

"  But  Mr.  Beauchamp  was  to  have  come  too,  wasn't 
he  .  .  .  ?  I  haven't  seen  him  since  last  night." 

"  He  was  here  just  before  you  came.  ...  He  wouldn't 
stop  to  tea."  The  addition  was  an  afterthought.  "  That's 
an  awfully  nice  coat  you're  wearing,"  she  went  on.  "  Did 
you  get  it  in  England  or  here  ?  " 

Anne  wondered  why  she  should  trouble  to  make  con- 
versation. She  could  not  really  see  the  coat.  But  they 
had  looked  at  each  other  in  the  passage. 

"  I  bought  it  here  a  week  ago.  ...  I'm  glad  you  like  it." 

Silence  and  the  dim  light  went  together.  Miss  Ether- 
edge  smoked,  bending  forwards,  her  elbows  resting  upon 
her  knees.  The  end  of  her  cigarette  faintly  glowed.  Anne 
could  hear  the  distant  purr  of  the  kettle. 

;<  That  was  a  funny  tea-party  ...  at  Ramsay's  yester- 
day." Miss  Etheredge's  words  shot  up  into  a  laugh.  "  I 
suppose  it's  rather  trying  if  you're  a  stranger.  .  .  .  I'm  not 
the  person  to  be  about  with  here.  Everybody  I  know  is 
my  enemy  .  .  .  except  Bill.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Miss  Etheredge  broke  it  sud- 
denly. 

"  Oh,  you  came  to  see  my  pictures,  of  course.  And  so 
did  Mr.  Beauchamp,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  Well,  it 
doesn't  matter.  He  didn't  see  them.  That's  where  they 
are." 

She  pointed  to  the  fireplace  in  the  further  room,  where 
a  trickle  of  smoke  painfully  climbed  from  a  mass  of  charring 
cinder.  Then  she  went  across  to  the  fire  and  stirred  the 
ashes  about  with  a  piece  of  broken  picture-frame.  A  dull 
red  showed  like  a  winter  sun,  sprinkled  with  yellow, 
draggled  sparks  that  died  down  into  the  blackness  again. 

"  They  made  a  fine  blaze  just  when  he  came  in.  ...  And 
yet  I  forgot  all  about  telling  him  what  it  was.  He  didn't 
ask  either.  Perhaps  that  was  politeness." 

She  put  a  few  odd  pieces  of  wood  from  the  hearth  into  the 
red  centre  of  the  ashes.  As  she  rose  again  to  her  full  height 
from  powerfully  crouching,  she  threw  the  stick  she  held 


382  STILL  LIFE 

in  her  hand  on  to  the  rest,  and  went  back  to  her  place. 
Both  were  silent.  The  creeping  gloom  stole  about  Anne, 
sealing  her  lips.  The  wood  on  the  fire  caught  into  a  few 
yellow  flames  that  danced  lamely  upwards  and  expired. 
Before  they  died  they  flashed  a  fitful  light  from  wall  to  wall. 

"  You  don't  say  very  much,"  said  Miss  Etheredge. 

"  No " 

"  Not  much  to  say,  is  there  ?  I  suppose  this  kind  of 
thing  is  hard  to  understand.  You'd  pity  me  if  you  didn't 
feel  that  I'm  not  exactly  the  person  to  be  pitied.  Isn't 
that  it  ?  " 

"  I  wonder.  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  part  of  it,  anyhow." 

"  No  wonder  I'm  a  strange  animal  when  I  come  out  into 
the  light.  Perhaps  I  don't  belong  there  any  more.  Do  you 
think  I've  lived  with  myself  too  long  ?  .  .  .  But  then  you 
have,  too  .  .  .  longer  than  me,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"  A  long  while,  certainly." 

"  And  you  can  still  do  things,  can't  you  ?  You  went 
away  with  young  Temple.  That  wants  doing.  I  couldn't 
do  that.  If  I  want  to  begin,  everything  seems  rotten.  I 
know  beforehand  that  everything  will  fail.  Everything 
and  everybody.  It's  all  the  same.  The  men  turn  beasts. 
The  women  turn  nothing  at  all.  They're  only  a  second- 
rate  double  of  the  men  they  hang  on  to.  The  best  of  them 
go  that  way.  I  can't  do  that." 

Miss  Etheredge  was  crying.  Her  words  came  in  short, 
high-pitched  rushes  between  the  sobs  which  rose  through 
her  body,  like  quiet  waves. 

"  And  this  is  the  best  I  can  do  with  life.  . .  .  Four  pictures 
burnt  and  making  the  hell  of  a  mess  in  my  fireplace.  .  .  . 
I  don't  even  know  what  I  want  from  anybody.  ...  I  only 
know  I'm  bound  to  hate  them,  and  they're  bound  to  hate 
me. . . .  It's  there  at  the  very  beginning.  .  . .  The  people  that 
would  be  good  to  me,  only  do  it  because  they  pity  me.  .  .  . 
I  can't  have  that.  It's  no  good.  .  .  . 

"  How  I  hate  this  room  !  .  .  .  But  it's  mine.  It's  me.  It 
makes  you  miserable,  just  the  same  as  I  make  you  miser- 


STILL  LIFE  383 

able.  Funny  .  .  .  young  Temple  was  just  like  that  when 
he  met  me.  I  hurt  people  just  because  I  have  to  hurt  them. 
What  the  devil  should  I  be  if  I  didn't  fight?  There 
wouldn't  be  anything  left.  .  .  .  No,  I'll  have  to  keep  a  dog — 
and  a  cat  perhaps,  like  Colette— be  nice  and  meek  and 
mild,  cutting  up  meat  and  biscuits  for  the  darling.  Yes, 
I  should  be  fine  with  a  menagerie,  fine,  a  world  of  my  own 
to  manage  on  six  sous  de  lait  a  day." 

Anne  listened.  It  was  all  like  what  she  had  heard 
yesterday  ;  but  now  it  held  her  silent.  Miss  Etheredge 
was  speaking  inside  Anne  herself  now  ;  and  Anne  could  not 
believe  that  this  was  the  woman  and  these  the  words  of 
yesterday.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  through  the  gloom  upon 
her  companion,  and  when  a  sudden  gleam  of  light  passed 
with  deep  flickering  shadows  between  them,  her  gaze  did 
not  falter.  It  was  as  though  she  heard  herself  speaking. 
Some  part  of  her  of  which  she  had  been  afraid,  which  she 
had  suppressed  with  all  her  power,  had  suddenly  become 
triumphant  and  vocal.  She  listened.  She  did  not  even 
feel  that  Miss  Etheredge  was  a  separate  person.  The 
momentary  impulse  of  her  pity  was  forgotten.  She 
listened  to  a  voice. 

Miss  Etheredge  threw  her  burnt  cigarette  abruptly  away. 
It  lay  a  dying  cinder,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  The 
gesture  woke  Anne.  Quietly  and  deliberately  she  took  off 
her  hat,  and  laid  it  on  the  cushioned  seat  beside  her,  stab- 
bing in  the  pins.  Then  she  pushed  her  way  between  the 
round  table  and  the  seat  and  sat  down  by  Miss  Etheredge. 
Even  while  she  put  her  arms  round  her  neck,  she  felt  how 
large  were  her  shoulders,  how  incongruous  her  own 
embrace. 

"  Oh,  my  darling  .  .  .,"  she  said.  "  I  know."  Miss 
Etheredge's  head  sank  upon  Anne's  shoulders.  She  was 
aware  of  the  full  weight  of  the  body  that  pressed  down  upon 
hers  ;  and  she  braced  herself  against  it. 

There  was  silence  in  which  Anne's  mind  would jio  longer 
work.  The  power  of  thought  floated  far  away  from  her. 


384  STILL  LIFE 

Her  hands  gently  caressed  the  body  which  she  clasped, 
caressed  it  automatically.  Automatically  she  was  saying 
ineffectual  things.  "  Don't  cry.  .  .  .  Don't  cry." 

When  Miss  Etheredge  lifted  her  head  again,  Anne  leant 
back  in  the  corner.  She  was  weak,  as  though  a  strength 
had  departed  from  her,  and  the  great  sobs  that  moved 
through  Miss  Etheredge's  body  had  been  torn  from  the 
depths  of  her  own. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Etheredge,  with  a  half-laugh, 
"  that  does  me  good.  They  say  so,  don't  they  ?  " 

Anne  nodded.  Through  her  mind  unexpectedly  flashed 
some  ridiculous  words  that  she  had  read  as  a  child.  "  Smiles 
after  tears  are  like  sunshine  after  rain."  She  closed  her 
eyes  a  moment  and  waited  for  the  sunshine. 

"  But  it  really  doesn't  make  much  odds,  does  it  ?  "  went 
on  Miss  Etheredge.  "  I  shall  be  just  the  same.  Everybody 
goes  on  hating  me.  You'll  hate  me.  .  .  .  No,  perhaps  you 
won't.  You're  too  much  like  me.  I  wonder  what's  the 
difference  between  you  and  me,  after  all." 

"  Not  very  much,"  whispered  Anne. 

"  You're  hurt  and  you  don't  hurt  back.  Is  that  it  ? 
You  don't  make  such  a  muck  of  it  as  I  do.  I'll  go  on  hurt- 
ing people.  .  .  .  You'll  go  on  loving  young  Temple.  He'll 
take  every  bit  of  it  and  give  you  credit  for  nothing.  He'd 
only  give  you  credit  for  something  if  you  were  like  me.  .  .  . 
No,  but  you  don't  really  love  him.  ...  I  can  see  that.  .  .  . 
Some  people  think  I  ought  to  marry." 

She  spoke  with  a  voice  suddenly  changed.  Anne  had  an 
instant  sense  that  she  was  no  longer  speaking  from  a  mind 
full  of  thoughts  and  ideas,  but  from  some  active  actual 
wound  within  her.  It  was  like  the  upburst  of  a  cry  of  pain, 
for  all  the  vagueness  of  the  words. 

"  What  do  you  think  about  that  ?  "  She  put  the  question 
to  Anne  abruptly,  savagely.  It  might  have  been  a  grim 
and  ridiculous  joke,  covering  an  outrage  to  herself. 

"  To  marry."  Anne  repeated  the  phrase  dully.  Her 
comprehension  was  tired.  "No,"  she  said  sharply,  in- 


STILL  LIFE  385 

stinctively :  and  then  continued  as  she  realised  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  It's  easy  to  say  '  rnarry,'  as  though  it  were  something 
like  having  your  teeth  seen  to.  ...  To  marry  means  to 
marry  a  man.  The  man's  the  important  thing.  He  may 
be  one  man  in  a  million.  He'd  have  to  be.  With  the  rest 
you'd  lose  yourself,  or  be  worse  off  than  you  are  ...  so  much 
yourself  that  you'd  go  mad.  To  some  women  marriage 
may  be  the  beginning  of  everything,  or  it  may  be  hell ;  and 
it's  always  for  those  women  that  the  chances  are  a  million 
to  one  that  it  will  be  hell,  one  kind  of  hell  or  another.  .  .  . 
And  marriage,  after  all,  is  a  bad  word.  Marriages  are 
common  enough.  There  must  be  a  hundred  an  hour.  If 
you  say  love,  you  get  some  idea  of  what  you're  after.  .  .  . 
We  don't  say  so  because  we're  afraid  of  being  sentimen- 
talists. '  Love,'  yes.  You  ought  to  be  in  love.  So  ought 
I  and  every  woman  alive.  Sometimes  I  think — I'm  always 
thinking  it  now — that  life  can  only  begin  when  we  have 
finished  with  love.  I  don't  mean  a  year's  passion.  That's 
good.  But  we  come  out  of  it  wanting  it  again,  wanting 
more  from  it  than  ever  is  in  it.  We  never  find  it,  of  course. 
How  should  we  ?  Life  can't  go  on  by  old  experiences. 
They  aren't  experiences  any  more.  They're  dead  before 
they  are  ever  born.  And  we  are  tired  of  them  before  they 
come.  So  we  accept  some  drug  to  make  us  forget  that  we 
ever  were  ourselves,  that  we  ever  wanted  anything  more 
than  to  forget.  Perhaps  the  time  has  come  for  that  for  me. 
I've  felt  terribly  old  to-day,  terribly  old.  But  I  can't  be- 
lieve it.  Something  in  me  won't  let  me  believe  it.  I  think 
there's  something  in  love  and  still  beyond  it,  a  moment 
when  you  see  something  beyond  love  before  love  is  dead, 
something  to  be  achieved  out  of  two  persons  and  beyond 
themselves. 

"  After  all  the  lesser  thing  will  never  be  enough  for 
people  like  you  and  me.  We  have  the  wrong  tempera- 
ment ;  perhaps  we  belong  to  the  wrong  people.  I  can't 
face  an  experience  any  more  that  has  an  end  and  is  dead. 
2  c 


386  STILL  LIFE 

1  thought  I  could  until — quite  lately.  It's  that  makes  me 
wonder  whether  I  am  growing  old.  Is  it  old,  I  wonder,  to 
find  out  that  where  I  thought  I  was  asking  nothing  from 
life,  I  was  asking  everything  :  and  that  it  was  only  because 
I  was  asking  so  much  that  I  seemed  to  be  asking  so  little  ?  " 

They  were  silent  a  little  while.  Anne  seemed  to  be  trying 
to  answer  her  own  hard  question. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  went  on,  now  as  though  she  were  talking 
aloud  to  herself,  "  what  I'm  asking  for  is  only  marriage  after 
all.  Every  woman  that's  any  good,  then,  asks  for  that — 
the  freedom  to  be  herself.  Every  man,  too,  I  suppose. 
It's  funny  that  it  should  take  so  long  for  a  man  to  know  he 
must  find  it  in  a  woman,  and  a  woman  to  know  that  it's  a 
man.  I'm  sure  it's  really  true  that  we're  given  in  marriage 
in  heaven.  If  that's  the  marriage  you  mean,  then  you 
should  marry,  and  so  should  I  ...  But  that  doesn't  tell  us 
much,  does  it  ? 

"  I  used  to  think  I  could  master  life  by  having  a  sort  of 
poise  ;  if  I  was  only  steadily  myself,  never  letting  myself 
go  altogether,  it  would  be  all  right.  But  that  was  only  a 
kind  of  sickness,  I  can  see  now.  It  meant  denying  things 
beforehand.  It  was  forced,  just  as  if  you  were  to  decide  to 
behave  to  everybody  else  as  everybody  else  behaves,  to 
play  their  own  little  game  with  a  sort  of  contempt.  I 
thought  I  was  superior  to  all  my  experience.  I  don't  think 
it  was  offensive.  It  would  be  hard  for  me  to  hurt  anybody 
deliberately.  But  it  was  so  poor.  I  held  myself  back  from 
everything  as  though  my  lif e  depended  upon  it ;  and  in  my 
way  I  must  have  been  just  as  Morry  has  been  all  along.  It 
was  the  narrowest  chance  I  ever  went  away  with  him.  I 
can  see  all  that  now.  He  let  himself  go  for  a  moment,  the 
critical  moment,  and  I  felt  it  and  followed  him.  You're 
right.  In  a  small  way  it  was  a  real  thing  that  I  did. 

"  Then  I've  had  to  get  back  this  .  .  .  poise.  ...  I  had  to 
maintain  myself  against  him,  because  he  would  never  help 
me.  He  fights  away  from  me  always.  Perhaps  I  am 
stronger  than  he  is.  But  he's  always  frightened  for  him- 


STILL  LIFE  387 

self,  and  so  I've  had  to  become  myself  again  ;  right  at  the 
very  beginning  I  had  to.  I've  only  just  realised  that  that's 
what  I  meant  by  poise.  It's  only  holding  yourself  clear. 
And  now  it's  not  enough  any  more.  It's  old  and  tired  and 
empty.  People  are  not  meant  to  be  self-contained.  ...  To 
give  everything  to  somebody  who  gives  himself  in  return, 
to  be  free  of  the  load  of  one's  self — that  would  make  us 
really  free,  to  accept  the  things  we're  frightened  of." 

Anne  stopped.  While  she  leant  back  wearily  in  the 
corner,  and  looked  into  the  chilly  gloom  in  front  of  her,  she 
wondered  why  she  had  talked.  She  had  rid  herself  of  no 
burden,  and  in  recompense  she  felt  only  a  throb  of  anxiety 
lest  what  she  had  said  should  be  handled  by  an  enemy. 
The  very  fact  of  her  confession  seemed  to  have  put  a  wall 
between  her  and  Miss  Etheredge,  at  the  moment  when  they 
had  come  closest  together.  In  the  silence  was  a  suggestion 
of  something  hostile,  that  she  was  in  no  way  fit  to  combat, 
for  she  had  laid  down  hostility  for  ever. 

The  kettle  asserted  itself  noisily  in  the  lull,  and  Miss 
Etheredge  bestirred  herself  to  get  tea.  She  did  it  so  quickly 
that  Anne,  fastening  aimlessly  on  small  evidences,  was 
certain  that  it  must  have  been  ready  prepared.  There  was 
even  a  plateful  of  cakes. 

;t  You're  coming  to  dinner  to-night,  aren't  you  ?  "  Anne 
asked. 

"  I  wasn't  invited.  They  don't  invite  me.  You  know 
why." 

"  Neither  was  I  invited,  as  far  as  I  can  remember.  Morry 
told  me  about  it." 

"  Stay  here  then.  I'll  get  something  to  eat.  We  can 
go  and  upset  them  afterwards.  They're  going  to  the 
Parthenon,  I  suppose." 

"  He  did  say  something  about  a  cafe." 

"  That's  it  then.    It's  always  the  same." 

"  But  you  see  I  promised  Morry  that  I'd  go.  I  think  I 
must.  Why  don't  you  come,  too  ?  " 

"  The  same  old  reason.  .  .  .  Who's  going  to  be  there  ?  " 


388  STILL  LIFE 

"  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  imagine  the  people  who  were  at 
tea  yesterday." 

"  But  Wauchope's  gone  into  the  country.  I'd  like  to 
know  if  he's  taken  Netta  with  him,  like  to  know  very  much. 
...  I'd  make  it  damned  uncomfortable  for  him.  .  .  .  Every- 
body except  Wauchope.  .  .  .  No,  I  shan't  go.  I'll  go  to  the 
Parthenon  afterwards.  Then  I'll  pay  for  my  own  drink 
and  be  quite  independent.  .  .  .  And  I  shall  see  my  new  beau. 
.  .  .  You  don't  know  about  him  ?  " 

"  No." 

Miss  Etheredge  laughed.  "  Oh,  that's  your  Mr.  Beau- 
champ.  We  had  a  beautifully  intimate  conversation  here 
this  afternoon,  a  little  while  before  you  came.  We  suited 
each  other  fine,  I  can  tell  you.  We  even  wept  together. 
He's  a  great  admirer  of  mine  now  ;  ready  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing for  me,  just  out  of  kindness  and  pure  affection.  Oh, 
quite  a  romance.  ...  I  wonder  whether  he'd  be  glad  to 
see  me,  again,  to-night." 

"  Surely  he  would." 

Fantastic  anxieties  beset  Anne  in  her  desolation.  She 
was  troubled  by  Miss  Etheredge's  words.  The  thought  that 
Dennis  had  done  this  thing  apart  from  her  hurt  her  now. 
She  did  not  know  what  the  thing  might  be.  But  Dennis 
had  failed  her  too.  She  had  not  yet  believed  that  she  stood 
so  nakedly  alone.  For  an  instant  she  thought  that  Miss 
Etheredge  was  aiming  at  her.  But  how  could  Miss  Ether- 
edge  know  that  it  mattered  to  her  what  Dennis  did  ?  She 
herself  knew  it  only  now. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  added. 

"  I  don't  think  he  would  somehow.  He'd  feel  he  had 
given  himself  away.  And  he'd  be  upset  at  the  idea  I  would 
give  him  away  too.  . .  .  Give  him  away.  .  .  .  That's  what  the 
best  man  does  at  a  marriage,  isn't  it  ?  ...  I'm  terribly 
ignorant,  really.  ..." 

"  Yes,  that's  nearly  right." 

"  That's  damn  funny,  then — damn  funny  !  "  Her  laugh 
escaped  into  a  shriek, 


STILL  LIFE  389 

Anne  was  frightened,  not  of  her  hysteria,  but  of  a  sense 
beneath  her  words.  Miss  Etheredge  lit  a  smoky  lamp  and 
set  it  on  the  table.  Then  she  took  a  scattered,  loose-leaved 
sketch-book  and,  as  she  sat  beside  Anne,  began  to  draw 
quickly.  Leaning  forward,  massively  beautiful,  her  long 
fingers  sweeping  a  piece  of  charcoal  over  the  paper,  she 
seemed  to  Anne  ruthless  and  terrible.  Anne  wanted  to 
escape  from  her  as  from  an  evil  thing. 

"  No,  it's  too  good,"  said  Miss  Etheredge,  laughing  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  while  she  drew.  "  *  Miss  Etheredge  giving 
Mr.  Beauchamp  away,'  that's  so  much  better  than  Mr. 
Dennis  giving  himself  away." 

Whether  of  purpose  or  not,  she  held  the  paper  so  that 
Anne  could  see.  Though  Anne  tried  to  drag  her  eyes  away 
she  was  fascinated  by  the  charcoal  point.  Miss  Etheredge 
drew  a  gigantic  caricature  of  herself,  statuesque  and  im- 
perturbable like  a  smiling  Egyptian  god.  The  smile  seemed 
to  Anne  to  be  the  very  expression  of  what  she  feared  in  her. 
"  But  that  must  be  imagination,"  she  thought,  for  the 
mouth  was  only  a  hasty  line,  and  she  sought  to  shake  off 
the  illusion.  With  outstretched,  implacable  hands  the 
goddess  was  giving  two  pigmies  each  to  the  other.  One 
was  beyond  all  doubt  Dennis — with  a  strange  familiar 
droop  to  his  shoulders  ;  the  other — while  she  waited  Anne 
was  haunted  by  the  strange  attitude  of  Dennis — Miss  Ether- 
edge  herself,  as  she  sat  there  opposite  Anne  but  a  little 
while  ago — Miss  Etheredge,  shy  and  reluctant,  virginal, 
caricatured,  but  real.  Before  she  had  finished,  she  crumpled 
the  paper  up  and  threw  it  on  to  the  floor. 

"  It's  a  good  idea,"  said  Miss  Etheredge,  much  calmer 
now.  "  It's  the  only  way  I  can  hold  up  against  things,  by 
drawing  them.  But  I'll  never  make  anything  of  that  one 
anyhow.  I  can't  go  through  with  it.  Sentimentality  or 
something  gets  in  the  way.  It's  always  the  same.  ..." 

The  relief  that  came  to  Anne  when  Miss  Etheredge 
crumpled  up  the  drawing  and  threw  it  away  was  sudden 
and  profound.  Even  the  white  ball  of  paper  lying  impotent 


390  STILL  LIFE 

upon  the  floor  still  fascinated  her  like  a  malignant  insect 
done  to  death.  She  was  still  trying  to  discover  what  had 
brought  to  her  mind  the  drooping  line  of  Dennis's  shoulder 
in  the  drawing.  It  was  so  vivid  that  it  obsessed  her,  and 
she  said  with  but  half  her  thought  to  her  speech  : 

;c  You  can  be  terribly  cruel  .  .  .  too  cruel." 

"  Genius  gone  wrong  ?  " 

"  You're  so  cruel  to  yourself.  .  .  .  You  shouldn't  do 
things  like  that.  Somehow  it  seems  to  me  wrong — evil !  " 

"  I  won't  draw  you,  anyhow.    I  couldn't." 

"  There's  something  in  you  that  frightens  me,  as  though 
you  had  the  power  to  turn  bad — really  bad.  I  don't  know 
how  to  tell  you." 

"  Perhaps  I  have.  Who  knows  ?  Who's  got  any  idea  of 
what  I  have  to  go  through,  what  I've  been  through  ?  And 
if  I'm  turned  wrong  and  cruel  it's  myself  I'm  wrong  and 
cruel  to,  first  of  all.  ...  But  do  you  know  ?  Other  people 
would  just  think  that  was  funny,  just  as  they  think  I'm  a 
kind  of  joke.  The  only  ones  that  really  appreciate  me  are 
terrified  of  me.  You  can  understand  that,  can't  you  ? 
They  can't.  Not  even  those  who  are  frightened  of  me. 
They've  no  idea  how  I'm  frightened  of  myself.  You  don't 
think  I  don't  know  there  something  wrong  in  that  ?  "  She 
pointed  to  the  ball  of  paper.  "  You  know  I  hate  myself 
when  I  do  that .  .  .  but  if  I  didn't .  .  .  " — she  lifted  her  eyes 
from  the  ground  and  her  head  from  her  breast  and  looked 
at  Anne — "  ...  I  believe  I  should  go  mad.  Lonely.  .  .  . 
They  don't  know  what  loneliness  is.  I  think  I  could  paint  a 
lonely  woman.  They'd  think  that  was  funny  too — the 
swine. 

"  One  thing  about  your  Mr.  Beauchamp.  He  didn't  see 
anything  funny  in  me.  I  will  say  that  for  him.  .  .  .  But  he 
saw  something  he  won't  forget,  before  he  got  away.  Yes, 
he'll  remember  me. 

"  I  suppose  you've  read  a  lot.  You've  read  Wilde,  any- 
way, and  Baudelaire.  .  .  .  They're  said  to  be  naughty,  aren't 
they  ?  I  dare  say  they  are.  And  not  much  good,  really. 


STILL  LIFE  391 

I  don't  know  a  bit  what's  first  chop  in  these  things.  But 
they  were  lonely.  People  go  like  that  because  they're 
lonely,  I  know.  My  God,  I  don't  blame  them.  .  .  .  But  a 
woman  .  .  .  that's  a  different  affair.  Yes,  I'd  like  to  find 
someone  like  me.  You're  like  me  in  some  ways  ;  and  then 
you're  quite  different.  Wauchope's  like  me.  But  it's  only 
a  touch.  Lots  of  men  have  a  touch.  But  you  don't  find 
many  who've  got  nothing  else,  all  day  long,  nothing  else  at 
all.  They  are  bloody  freaks.  Yes,  it's  true,  they  are  funny, 
bloody  funny. 

"  But  I'm  being  quite  sensible  about  it  now,  ain't  I  ? 
No  more  weeping.  That's  you  being  here.  Wait  till  you've 
gone.  No,  stay  here  till  you  have  to  go.  Then  I  can  go  out 
to  dinner  at  the  same  time  as  you.  It's  not  many  minutes 
more.  But  I  am  being  very  quiet  about  it  now.  I  haven't 
been  like  this  for  months.  .  .  . 

"  Then,  sometime,  I'll  have  to  go  back  to  the  bosom  of 
my  family.  I  shouldn't  get  any  money  if  I  didn't.  And 
my  mother'll  say  :  '  My  poor  child,  what  have  you  been 
doing  to  yourself  ?  *  She  always  starts  off  like  that.  '  We 
must  feed  you  up.  You've  been  eating  that  horrible 
French  food.  .  .  .' 

"  When  I'm  like  this  I  can  see  it  really  is  funny.  There 
is  some  humour  in  the  old  world  still.  Perhaps  I  shall  like 
that  one  of  these  days,  and  I'll  just  stay  there,  and  go  on 
being  well  fed  by  my  mother.  .  .  .  I'm  making  you  tired." 

"  No,"  said  Anne,  "  I  was  tired  long  before  I  came  here  ; 
and  I'm  not  more  tired  now." 

"  I'd  like  to  come  to  that  dinner." 

;'  Then  why  not  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  no  good.  I  can't  stand  too  much.  I  don't 
think  I'd  be  much  good  to-day.  I  shouldn't  be  funny 
enough,  and  they'd  be  disappointed.  No,  it's  been  a 
heavy  day,  even  for  me.  I  was  dancing  a  pas  seal  even  be- 
fore you  came.  Really  a  pas  seul,  in  front  of  the  mirror 
there.  That's  always  about  the  beginning  of  the  end." 

"  The  beginning  of  the  end."    The  phrase  became  real. 


392  STILL   LIFE 

A  chill  atmosphere  of  death  seemed  to  hang  about  that 
room,  to  have  crept  into  Anne's  soul.  Memories  of  ancient 
dreams  and  old  deaths  gathered  about  it.  Pitifully  she 
desired  Miss  Etheredge's  tears,  Miss  Etheredge  weeping 
rather  than  Miss  Etheredge  cold  and  hard.  This  tyran- 
nised over  her  and  held  her  fast.  She  had  not  even  the 
desire  to  be  away.  She  was  fixed  with  something  that  she 
dared  not  look  at,  and  dared  not  escape. 

"  I  don't  think  your  Mr.  Beauchamp  will  be  at 
dinner.  ..." 

"  No.  ..."    Anne  knew  that  he  would  not  be  there  now. 

"  I  shan't  meet  him  again,  I  know.  Not  him.  He'll  be 
changed,  if  ever  I  see  him  again.  I  dare  say  he  will  have 
forgotten  it.  He  won't  be  able  to  remember.  ...  I  shan't 
see  you  again,  either." 

"  But  to-night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to-night,  of  course.  But  to-night  belongs  to  to- 
day. It's  nothing  new,  only  the  end  of  this.  Put  a  night's 
sleep  to  finish  it,  and  then  ?  You  can't  afford  to  see  me 
again.  It  would  be  asking  for  it.  Oh,  I  know  well  enough. 
I'm  not  blind.  You'll  have  to  be  strong  again  before  you 
can  risk  it,  and  then  you  won't  know  why  it  was  at  all." 

Anne  did  not  answer.  Again  Miss  Etheredge's  words  had 
the  undefinable  ring  of  certainty.  It  would  have  been 
trivial  and  false  to  protest. 

"  You  feel  that's  true,  don't  you  ?  "  said  Miss  Etheredge. 

"  Yes,  I  do."  There  were  long  pauses  between  question 
and  answer,  pauses  with  some  compelling  quality  of  their 
own,  that  stifled  the  very  beginning  of  untruth. 

"  I  like  you  for  saying  so.  ...  It  makes  me  feel  that  I 
shan't  hate  you  like  the  rest." 

"  It  was  not  I  that  said  so,  after  all." 

Anne  felt  that  she  was  compelled  to  be  honest  about  her- 
self. Beside  her  companion  now,  she  was  small,  and  she 
wondered  whether  there  was  a  real  Anne.  The  feeling  that 
she  was  less  than  Miss  Etheredge  left  her  without  any  being 
of  her  own.  She  was  all  or  nothing.  She  could  not  hold 


STILL  LIFE  393 

herself  of  a  few  minutes  ago  with  herself  now.  The  im- 
mediate past  had  become  yet  more  foreign  than  the  remote. 
And  the  present  held  so  little,  so  pitifully  little. 

"  Does  it  worry  you  to  think  that  in  a  little  while  I'll  be 
whining  and  raging  again  .  .  .  just  as  I  did  yesterday  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Anne.  "  It's  so  different,  so  hard 
to  imagine.  No.  ...  I  don't  think  it  does.  .  .  .  But  that's 
because  it  doesn't  seem  real  any  more,  I  think  that's  the 
reason." 

"  I  dare  say.  .  .  .  Now,  I  don't  know  whether  I  envy  you 
at  all.  Things  are  so  certain.  I'm  too  old  to  aim  after — 
anything,  dreams.  I  couldn't  begin.  I  must  have  hesi- 
tated too  long.  '  Linger  shivering  on  the  brink  and  fear 
to  launch  away  ' — there's  a  hymn  like  that,  isn't  there  ? 
I  suppose  it's  not  what  the  swells'd  call  poetry  ;  but  there's 
something  in  it.  I  don't  want  ..."  Again  she  hesitated. 
"  Dreams  any  more.  Just  don't  want  them.  I  wish  .  .  . 
your  Mr.  Beauchamp  had  come  to  see  when  I  was  like  this. 
But  I  haven't  been  like  this  for  a  long  while,  perhaps  never 
before. 

"  It  won't  last  very  long,  either.  You've  just  got  to  go 
away  and  it's  all  up,  the  whole  damn  thing  busted.  Not 
quite  so  sudden  as  that  perhaps,  but  the  beginning  of  the 
end. 

"  You  ought  to  be  going  now,  oughtn't  you  ?  You're 
quite  right  about  going  to  that  dinner.  It's  no  use  stopping 
here,  is  it  ?  We've  done  all  we  can  do." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I'll  go,  now,"  said  Anne.  She  rose  and 
gathered  her  hat  and  the  pins.  As  she  put  on  her  hat  she 
said  :  "  How  very  far  away  from  life  we  are  here."  Then 
she  corrected  herself.  "  Very  far  away  from  the  world." 

"  Listen  by  the  window,"  said  Miss  Etheredge. 

Together  they  went  to  the  window.  The  low  sun-blind 
bent  their  eyes  downwards.  Through  a  large  lighted 
window  below  them  they  saw  the  moving  shadow  of  some 
activity. 

"  It's  quite  dark  now,"  said  Anne. 


394  STILL  LIFE 

She  felt  Miss  Etheredge's  arm  close  softly  round  her 
shoulder.  While  she  looked  at  the  moving  shadow  her 
eyes  were  slowly  covered  as  with  a  curtain.  The  light  in 
the  window  below  spread  and  swam  into  a  darkness. 
Then  she  heard  a  quick,  dull  tapping,  that  echoed  up  the 
dark  well. 

"  It's  a  sculptor  ...  an  Italian,"  said  Miss  Etheredge. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Anne.  The  impulse  came  to  them 
together.  They  kissed  on  the  mouth. 

A  glimmer  from  a  low  gas  flame  escaped  from  the  kitchen. 
Anne  felt  her  way  to  the  door,  sliding  her  feet  carefully  be- 
fore her,  and  groped  for  the  latch.  She  tried  the  unfamiliar 
latch  a  long  while  with  her  fingers,  neither  expecting  nor 
receiving  aid.  As  it  clicked  open,  she  heard  a  voice  from 
behind  her,  and  waited,  quite  still. 

"  Ah,  you've  found  it.  ...  Good-bye."  Then  it  changed, 
indefinitely  changed.  ..."  Yes,  I  shall  be  at  the  Parthenon 
to-night — outside. ' ' 

While  she  made  her  way  to  the  street,  Anne  asked  much 
of  the  cool  air  and  the  people  passing.  She  felt  that  these 
would  bring  her  back  to  herself,  or  bring  her  some  relief. 
She  did  not  know  what  she  expected  from  them.  There 
was  warm  darkness  and  warm  lights  in  the  street.  It  was 
not  inhospitable,  and  it  was  very  real.  But  neither  the 
warmth  nor  the  hospitality  were  for  her.  She  had  been 
taken  out  of  the  world,  out  of  life.  Again  she  stood  irreso- 
lutely upon  the  pavement  corner.  To  her  thought  distance 
was  overwhelming  and  unconquerable  ;  and  as  she  glanced 
vaguely  about  her  she  saw  the  dim  white  of  the  prints  in 
the  long  window  opposite,  and  the  vision  of  Dennis,  with 
the  strange  droop  in  his  shoulders,  as  Miss  Etheredge  had 
drawn  him,  took  its  place  naturally  before  the  window  and 
moved  slowly  round  the  corner  out  of  her  sight. 

She  was  not  deceived.  She  saw  the  window  opposite 
steadily  all  the  while,  and  she  saw  that  no  one  was  there. 
Only  in  her  mind  was  the  picture  of  Dennis,  shaped  by 
Miss  Etheredge's  fingers  ;  but  the  picture  seemed  to  free  a 


STILL  LIFE  395 

sudden  understanding.  {Some  weighty  gloom,  which  she 
could  not  grapple  while  it  had  pressed  upon  her,  dispersed. 
She  was  sad  now,  but  calm  and  somehow  herself. 

Hailing  &  fiacre  at  the  corner,  she  was  driven  back  to  the 
hotel.  She  had  come  out  of  an  ordeal.  She  had  emerged 
alive,  where  she  might  have  been  dead.  The  fatigue  of 
deliverance  weighed  her  steps  as  she  climbed  up  the  stairs. 

Maurice  was  in  an  armchair.  He  had  on  his  overcoat 
and  his  hat  rested  on  his  knee.  She  felt  the  sudden  gladness 
in  him  as  he  jumped  up. 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  coming." 

"  I  suppose  I'm  very  late." 

"  No,  it  wasn't  that  I  meant "  He  stopped  suddenly, 

as  a  man  before  a  precipice. 

Anne  hardly  noticed  it.  She  was  not  ready  to  feel  things 
acutely  again.  Maurice  held  her  hand. 

"  You  are  very  tired,  aren't  you  ? . .  .  That's  Etheredge." 

"  I'll  be  ready  in  a  second." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  want  to  come  ?  "  asked  Maurice,  and 
even  as  he  asked,  the  door  was  closing  upon  Anne. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THEY  were  late.  They  were  late  nearly  by  a  half  an  hour. 
It  was  so  utterly  unimportant  to  Maurice  as  he  sat  in  a  cab, 
close  by  Anne's  side,  that  it  tinkled  pleasantly  in  his  brain. 
The  recollection  of  his  day  slid  so  completely  away  from 
him,  that  he  answered,  sincerely,  with  a  puzzled  ignorance 
of  what  he  had  really  been  doing,  when  Anne  asked — 

"  What  did  you  do  all  day  ?  " 

"  Oh  ...  I  just  wandered  about,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  go 
to  see  Boisonnier  after  all." 

He  did  not  understand  himself  and  Anne,  sitting  there 
close  together.  She  seemed  in  a  way  so  near  to  him  ...  as 
if  nothing  had  happened  ...  as  if  something  had  happened 
to  them  both,  rather.  And  yet  there  was  something 
changed.  A  cloud  of  mutual  kindness  encompassed  them. 
In  it  they  were  equal.  He  was  grateful  for  it,  even  though 
he  knew  that  it  was  not  enough.  It  exacted  nothing  from 
him. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Anne  ?  " 

Anne  smiled  at  him,  slightly  turning  her  head,  so  gently, 
so  full  of  kindness,  that  he  felt  a  warm  sadness  like  the 
relief  of  tears. 

"  All  kinds  of  odd  things,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  ask  any  more.  What  she  said  was  sufficient, 
and  he  understood  it,  without  knowing  what  she  meant. 
He  played  with  the  two  rings  which  were  on  her  left  hand 
for  a  little  while,  until  the  cab  stopped,  when  he  bent  down 
and  kissed  it. 

He  was  glad  that  he  had  done  that  while  he  led  the  way 
into  the  restaurant.  In  a  corner  he  saw  Ramsay  and 
Wauchope  and  a  woman  whom  he  did  not  know. 

396 


STILL  LIFE  397 

"  Dennis  hasn't  turned  up,"  he  said  to  Anne.  "  I  wonder 
what  has  happened  to  him."  Meanwhile  he  waved  in 
response  to  Ramsay's  salutation. 

'  You're  late,  Temple,"  he  said  when  they  had  reached 
the  table.    "  But  we  were,  too,  so  it  was  as  well." 

Anne  was  speaking  to  Wauchope.  They  were  both  in- 
troduced to  Miss  Bathurst,  a  fresh-coloured  lady  who  broke 
immediately  into  torrents  of  kindly  talk.  She  had  been 
hearing  a  great  deal  about  Anne  from  Wauchope,  she 
averred,  who  had  been  singing  her  praises,  which  happened 
seldom  enough.  She  passed  without  pause  to  common- 
places of  Paris,  ending  her  first  speech  with  the  assurance 
that  Anne  really  must  live  there,  seeing  that  it  was  the  only 
possible  place. 

"  Have  you  decided  when  you  are  going  yet  ?  "  Ramsay 
asked. 

"  No  more  idea  than  we  had  yesterday." 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  matter  very  much." 

"  I  thought  you  were  off  to  the  country,"  Maurice  said  to 
Wauchope,  turning  round  on  his  chair  to  order  food  while 
he  spoke. 

"  So  did  I.  But  I  find  I'm  not  opulent  and  free,  like 
you." 

"  No  ?  "  Wauchope  did  not  trouble  him  any  more.  He 
was  only  an  incident.  Even  Ramsay  was  remote  and 
trivial.  He  realised  it  suddenly,  when  Ramsay  began  to 
talk  to  him  about  the  philosophy  they  had  begun  to  discuss 
yesterday.  Maurice  answered  his  questions  lucidly.  He 
felt  that  he  could  touch  the  game  with  his  fingers,  and 
move  the  pieces. 

"All  I  say,  after  all,  is  that  if  you  start  by  thinking 
that  you  are  there  on  one  side,  and  everything  else  is  out 
there  on  the  other  side,  you  can  never  ge"t  away  from  it. 
I  am  I  and  the  world's  the  world  may  sound  right  enough  ; 
but  seeing  that  everything  one  ever  does  or  is  ever  likely 
to  do  is  based  on  a  quite  different  idea,  it  can't  be  so  very 
valuable.  The  fact  is  that  you  never  are  isolated  wholly. 


398  STILL  LIFE 

and  you  can't  possibly  be  isolated.    It's  only  taking  hold 
of  the  wrong  end  of  the  stick." 

While  he  spoke  his  eyes  turned  to  Wauchope,  who  sat 
beside  him.  He  might  have  been  listening.  Fingering  his 
thin  moustache,  he  returned  Maurice's  look.  His  colourless 
blue  eyes  focussed  through  his  pince-nez,  and  seemed  more 
lifeless  than  ever.  Except  for  a  little  upward  twist  of  his 
thin  lips,  his  face  carried  no  expression.  Strangely  Maurice 
thought  that  Wauchope  knew  he  had  changed.  Wauchope 
knew  something  about  him.  He  was  on  the  point  of  asking 
Wauchope  point-blank  :  "  What  do  you  know  about  me, 
tell  me  ?  "  But  he  could  not  do  that.  Kamsay  there  and 
Miss  Bathurst,  they  would  have  found  it  strange.  He  had 
nothing  at  all  to  do  with  them.  Perhaps  he  was  to  them 
exactly  as  they  were  to  him.  He  marvelled  that  Ramsay 
should  be  interested  in  the  words  he  was  saying. 

Miss  Bathurst,  pink  and  genial,  was  talking  all  the  while 
to  Anne.  Anne  should  see  old  Berthelot's  shop.  All  the 
things  that  were  really  being  done  in  this  art  affair — the 
phrase  was  Ramsay's  and  it  pricked  Maurice's  ears — were 
there,  Badaud  and  Cochin  and  Picasso,  and  Berthelot  him- 
self was  such  a  dear.  And  there  was  the  Salon  d'Antan. 
Anne  had  not  seen  that  ?  It  was  wonderful,  really  wonder- 
ful, it  was  modern.  She  did  not  know  Harry  Borden  ?  He 
was  amazing.  He  smashed  all  the  crockery  at  the  Cafe 
d'Europe,  put  out  every  single  light,  before  the  agents  got 
him  ;  and  Paul  Bussy. .  .  .  Miss  Bathurst  was  indefatigable 
in  enumerating  the  stupendous  company,  and  Anne 
listened  gently. 

"  Bill !  "  Miss  Bathurst's  voice,  a  pleasant  voice  with  an 
echo  of  laughter,  rose,  "isn't  Wauchope's  picture  of  the 
tulips  a  masterpiece  ?  " 

"  You  should  see  that,  Temple.  It's  really  got  some- 
thing. The  artist's  getting  somewhere."  Ramsay  smiled 
at  Wauchope,  and  Maurice  knew  that  Wauchope  was  glad, 
not  for  the  praise,  but  for  the  smile. 

"Yes,"   said  Maurice   mechanically.     He   was   nearly 


STILL  LIFE  399 

impelled  to  tell  them  that  he  would  never  see  any  pictures 
any  more.    They  had  for  him  neither  use  nor  meaning. 

And  then  he  felt  the  unintelligible  burden  of  his  day. 
His  memory  was  laden  with  every  incident,  and  he  had  to 
support  the  weight  in  secret.  He  wished  it  undone.  It 
seemed  that  even  when  he  did  not  think  about  it,  it  was 
fermenting  in  hidden  activity.  He  looked  at  Anne  in  the 
hope  that  she  would  read  it  in  his  eyes.  She  was  listening 
to  Miss  Bathurst.  He  might  have  been  freed  from  some- 
thing of  it.  But  now  that  Anne  was  not  looking,  he  knew 
that  he  was  weak.  He  would  not  tell  her,  but  he  wanted 
her  to  know.  He  recoiled  from  the  sight  of  his  own  disin- 
tegration. "  But  I  don't  see  how  you  can  expect  to  be 
primitives  in  1913.  The  world-consciousness,  or  whatever 
you  call  it,  won't  allow  it ;  or  if  it  does  allow,  it's  no  more 
than  a  protest,  like  throwing  a  brick  through  a  plate-glass 
window.  You  talk  about  moderns — but  really,  there 
hasn't  been  a  modern  painter  since  Rembrandt.  And  even 
now  he's  a  hundred  years  ahead  of  you." 

Ramsay  laughed.    "  You've  vamped  along  in  two  years." 

"  Some  two  years  are  as  good  as  a  lifetime,  after  all." 

"  Yours  are  a  bit  better." 

"  Perhaps.  .  .  .  But  you  know  you  haven't  succeeded  in 
being  a  bit  more  modern  than  the  people  who  began  your 
movement.  You've  only  made  a  theory  out  of  their  work 
that  they  never  had  themselves.  ..." 

"  Oh,  you're  an  impossible  reactionary." 

Miss  Bathurst  was  talking  to  Anne  about  Miss  Ether- 
edge.  She  gave  them  all  advice  of  it  by  raising  her  too 
pleasant  voice  again. 

"  Bill.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Cradock  has  been  to  see  the  lioness  in  her 
den."  Ramsay  raised  his  eyebrows  and  smiled  vacantly. 
He  was  still  attending  to  the  desolate  argument.  "  It's 
not  everyone  dares  to  do  that,"  Miss  Bathurst  explained  to 
Anne.  "  How  did  you  get  on  with  her  ?  Better  than  we 
do,  I'm  sure." 

"  I  found  her  very  interesting,"  said  Anne, 


400  STILL  LIFE 

"  Oh,  she's  inter estirig,  right  enough  .  .  .  and  she's  very 
clever." 

"  So  I  thought." 

"  She  quarrels  with  everybody.  I'm  her  deadly  enemy 
just  now." 

"  Oh.  ..."  Anne  thought  that  she  was  not  so  very 
deadly,  and  would  have  smiled,  had  not  the  conversation 
been  so  far  away  from  her,  no  more  than  a  little  aimless 
whisper  in  her  ears. 

"I'm  not  sure  I  don't  agree  with  him,  Bill,"  said 
Wauchope. 

Maurice  was  surprised  a  moment ;  then  he  saw  that  the 
trailing  discussion  meant  as  little  to  Wauchope  as  it  did  to 
him.  And  Wauchope  was  a  painter. 

Wauchope  leaned  forward  over  the  table  and  drew  with 
his  finger  on  the  cloth.  The  smoke  from  his  cigarette 
ascended  in  a  swift  stream,  in  colour  like  his  eyes. 

"  I  don't  believe  anything  really  matters  to  you,  Bill." 
His  thin  lips  slanted  into  his  odd  smile,  and  he  watched  his 
finger  make  curves.  "Ah  ...  it's  rather  like  running  a  rail- 
way with  you.  ..." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?  " 

"  I  don't  make  anything  out.  You  have  to  be  explained. 
You're  really  a  phenomenon,  that's  all." 

"  You're  too  damnably  obscure."  Kamsay  was  not 
angry,  but  amused  and  expostulating.  "  What's  the 
point  of  saying  things  if  you're  not  going  to  explain 
them  ?  " 

"  That's  your  unfortunate  prejudice.  Running  railways 
again — by  the  time-sheet." 

Wauchope  thought  the  same  about  Ramsay  as  Maurice 
did,  then  Maurice  still  felt  that  Wauchope  knew  something 
about  him,  that  he  did  not  want  Wauchope  nor  anybody 
to  know.  Wauchope  might  even  be  able  to  see  the  visions 
of  Madeleine  that  came  into  his  mind  unsought,  of  Made- 
leine hurt,  Madeleine  waiting,  crowding  recollections  of  old 
intimacies.  He  might  even  read  the  straggling  words  of 


STILL  LIFE  401 

Tu  nCas  cassais  le  cceur,  written  lives  ago,  and  being  written 
again  in  his  mind  now. 

While  these  pictures  passed  before  his  mind,  he  felt  that 
his  soul  was  open  for  eyes  to  see.  He  glanced  up  to  look  at 
Anne.  She  was  still  listening  to  Miss  Bathurst,  who  leant 
with  her  plump  arms  folded  upon  the  table.  At  that 
moment  he  had  a  clear  sight  of  Anne.  He  could  not  hurt 
her  any  more  ;  she  was  beyond  his  power  to  hurt.  Nothing 
that  he  did  would  increase  her  pain,  nothing  would  assuage 
it.  That  was  why  that  kindness  had  enveloped  them  both 
on  their  way  hither.  He  would  have  changed,  he  would 
have  loved  her  and  responded  to  her  love,  only  she  had 
passed  beyond  him  now.  He  did  love  her  now,  he  asserted 
to  himself  as  he  looked  at  her  again,  and  sank  his  eyes  to 
Wauchope's  circling  finger.  Her  fingers  drummed  again, 
her  arm  was  stretched  out  again  upon  the  table  before  his 
eyes.  How  he  longed  to  kiss  her  hand,  to  kiss  her  lips,  to 
be  watched  and  mirrored  by  her  eyes.  How  he  wished 
that  all  these  people  were  miles  away,  the  whole  world 
shattered  out  of  sight.  A  dread  foreboding  sounded 
terribly  through  him,  that  he  should  never  again  be  touched 
by  her,  never  be  held  by  her  and  forget  everything.  He 
could  not  look  into  the  void  without  her,  it  was  too  close 
and  too  terrible.  It  was  in  him  now.  His  mouth  opened. 
He  looked  upwards  suddenly,  as  one  who  sees  a  horror  and 
cannot  trust  that  the  world  is  real. 

"  What's  up,  Temple  ?  "  said  Ramsay.  "  You're  look- 
ing queer." 

Immediately,  he  looked  queer  no  longer.  "  Oh,  nothing," 
he  said.  "  Have  you  ever  tried  to  imagine  eternity, — some- 
thing that  goes  on  for  ever,  without  stopping,  for  ever  and 
ever ;  something  that  doesn't  move,  but  just  remains, 
never  changes  ?  " 

Ramsay  shook  his  head. 

"  It  gives  you  a  nasty  turn,"  said  Maurice. 

"  So  you  get  that  kind  of  thing,  too  ?  "  said  Wau- 
chope. 

2   D 


402  STILL  LIFE 

"  Something  wrong  with  you  physically.  ...  All  kinds 
of  rummy  diseases  ..."  said  Ramsay. 

"  Yes,  that's  it,"  said  Wauchope,  still  following  his  finger 
with  his  eyes. 

Ramsay  looked  up  and  about  him  with  wrinkled  fore- 
head, and  the  familiar  half-smile,  idly  tapping  with  a  five- 
franc  piece  on  the  table.  "  We'd  better  be  going." 

They  strolled  along  the  boulevard.  Anne  and  Miss 
Bathurst  led  the  way.  Miss  Bathurst  was  talking  still ; 
but  occasionally  she  turned  her  head  backward.  "  Don't 
lag  behind  so,"  she  called.  Then  Ramsay  looked  up  from 
his  meditations  for  a  second  and  dropped  his  head  again. 
The  luminous  blue  sky  of  a  Paris  night  in  spring  arched 
overhead.  The  wide  streets  were  desolate  to  Maurice  ;  the 
cafe"  lights  like  distant  beacons. 

Wauchope  broke  the  silence  to  say  to  him  : 

"  That's  a  queer  idea — eternity." 

"  Yes " 

The  idea  of  physical  loneliness  had  gradually  stolen 
through  Maurice  ;  his  craving  went  forth  into  empty 
spaces.  Even  yet  it  seemed  that  it  could  not  be  so  ;  that 
he  was  only  trembling  upon  the  brink  of  a  void  into  which 
he  never  would  be  plunged.  His  thought  could  not  hold  a 
future  so  terrible.  Before  it,  it  drooped  and  was  lifeless. 
Even  his  words  were  paralysed. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  again,  "  it's  ghastly." 

Wauchope  was  very  close  to  him,  desolate,  like  himself. 
He  understood  Wauchope  now  ;  but  at  the  moment  when 
he  felt  near  to  him  he  had  a  horror  of  contact.  He  could 
not  acknowledge  that  they  were  alike.  If  he  really  were 
like  Wauchope  he  would  die. 

-;uch  were  the  furious,  rhetorical  ideas  that  surged 
through  him,  ideas  of  mortal  death  and  clamorous  defiance 
of  inexorable  destiny  and  silent  endurance,  ideas  that  he 
knew  for  empty  swollen  things,  but  could  not  put  away. 
Either  these  must  be  in  his  mind  or  this  utter  desolation. 
"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  ever  leave  this  place,"  said 


STILL  LIFE  403 

Ramsay.  "  After  all  it  is  the  only  decent  place  to  live  in. 
Nobody  really  does  care  a  damn  about  you  here  after  all, 
so  that  you  really  are  free  in  some  sort  of  a  way." 

Maurice  heard  himself  say  :  "  But  I've  got  my  living  to 
earn."  The  idea  flickered  into  a  half -reality  and  faded 
away.  It  came  back  contorted,  revealing  a  sordid  depth 
in  himself  that  he  could  not  believe.  Without  Anne  he 
would  have  no  money :  he  would  have  to  go  to — go  to 
Cradock  again.  God  alone  knew  what  he  would  have  to 
do.  He  could  not  think  about  that ;  but  to  be  without 
Anne  was  real  to  him,  now  that  it  meant  to  be  without 
money.  That  he  could  see  and  feel.  "My  God,"  he 
moaned  to  himself,  striving  to  thrust  the  thought  away, 
loathing  the  very  mechanism  of  his  mind  that  had  brought 
it  before  him.  It  dissolved  away.  His  mind  and  his  body 
were  one  in  passionate  hunger  to  be  enfolded  in  Anne's 
arms  again. 

"  But  couldn't  you  make  some  kind  of  a  living  from 
here  ?     Don't  people   write  about  Paris  in  the  Sunday 
papers  ?    One  of  them  would  give  you  enough  to  live  on." 
;t  Yes,  but  they're  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking." 

"  No  ? ...  I  suppose  it's  only  the  R.A.'s  who  get  them " 

Wauchope  beside  Maurice  said  not  a  word.  He  was  not 
even  listening.  He  walked  along  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  tall,  even  though  his  head  was  bent  downwards. 
He  raised  it  as  they  drew  near  the  cafe,  and  peered  across 
the  road. 

"  There's  some  kind  of  a  fair  on,  isn't  there  ?  "  He 
blinked  at  the  changing  light  of  the  arc  lamp.  They  stood 
still.  Anne  and  Miss  Bathurst  had  paused  before  them. 
The  triumphant  steam  organ  magnified  a  whistled  tune 
into  an  orgy  of  music,  that  poured  out  with  the  flooding 
light.  The  cafe  by  the  corner  was  dark  against  the  brilliance 
that  illumined  only  a  circle  of  faces,  and  made  the  black 
shadow  beyond  them  blacker,  and  solid  as  iron.  As  the 
horses  swung  swiftly  round  thin  black  streaks  shot  out 
from  the  darkness,  and  changed  into  coloured  streamers. 


404  STILL  LIFE 

"  Isn't  it  splendid  ?  "  said  Miss  Bathurst.  In  her  ex- 
citement she  tiptoed  up  and  down. 

"  Good  things  !  "  said  Ramsay.  "  We'd  better  get  a 
seat  while  we  can." 

They  crossed  the  road.    Maurice  walked  beside  Anne. 

"  Are  you  cold,  Anne  ?  "  he  said.  He  could  not  speak 
to  her  now.  He  had  nothing  to  say  ;  words  were  empty 
and  ridiculous. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  she  said  and  looked  at  him.  Though  he 
could  not  see  her  eyes,  he  knew  they  were  gentle  and  kind. 
He  felt  that  in  them,  and  desolation  swept  him  again.  One 
sole  desire  gripped  him,  to  take  her  hand  and  walk  hand  in 
hand  with  her,  like  two  little  children  across  the  road. 
"  Like  two  little  children,"  his  mind  repeated,  for  that  was 
strangely  part  of  his  desire.  He  could  not  do  it.  Wide 
spaces  were  between  them  now. 

He  had  something  to  say  to  her  even  now,  he  thought, 
walking  by  her  side.  He  would  have  to  say,  naturally  : 
"  What  would  she  have  to  drink  ?  "  It  was  a  precious 
possession.  While  he  sat  down  opposite  her  with  his  back 
to  the  roundabout,  he  was  in  a  fever  lest  Ramsay  should 
anticipate  him. 

"  Anne,"  he  said  in  a  hard,  thin  voice,  "  what  will  you 
have  to  drink  ?  " 

Miss  Bathurst,  with  a  playful  glance  at  him,  bent  across 
Anne  beside  her  and  whispered  with  amorous  intensity  : 

"  Qu'est  ce  que  tu  prends,  ma  cherie  ?  .  .  ."  Then 
relapsing  into  her  chair.  "  That's  the  way  it  should  be 
done,  Mr.  Temple." 

Maurice  stared  at  her,  aghast.  It  was  the  ringer  of  destiny. 
Miss  Bathurst,  uneasy  before  his  eyes,  turned  and  spoke  to 
Ramsay,  ordering  her  drink.  Maurice  had  frightened  her. 

"  I'll  have  some  coffee,"  said  Anne.  The  patient  quiet- 
ness of  her  voice  hurt  him.  She  looked  at  him,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  not  there,  that  she  was  looking 
at  an  unreal  thing.  He  looked  back  at  her,  and  his  eyes 
were  like  insentient  lenses  of  glass,  that  reflected  and  did 


STILL  LIFE  405 

not  see.  Anne's  gaze  shifted  to  the  roundabout  behind  him. 
He  saw  himself  in  the  future  weeping,  calling  upon  her  who 
would  never  come  to  him,  never  comfort  him.  He  was  a 
stranger,  a  statue  in  his  own  sight ;  he  saw  himself  to  be, 
and  felt  nothing,  save  that  he  could  not  feel.  But  that 
future  was  fixed  and  ineluctable. 

What  he  saw  he  accepted  without  rebellion  or  question- 
ing. He  was  weary  and  incapable  now. 

And  the  words  that  he  had  to  say  to  her  were  doubly  pre- 
cious. They  shaped  upon  his  lips  into  elaborate  courtesies. 

"  You  would  like  the  coffee  really  hot ;  it's  nearly 
always  cold." 

"  Yes,  please,"  said  Anne. 

He  was  nervous  of  no  waiter  now,  and  he  rapped  sharp 
and  loud  upon  the  table.  The  waiter  hurried  to  him. 
Maurice  insisted,  as  he  had  never  insisted  before,  that  his 
bidding  should  be  done,  and  for  the  first  time  he  knew  that 
it  would  be  done.  Then  he  sank  back  into  himself.  He 
had  nothing  to  say.  The  sound  of  the  organ,  shrieking 
Sur  les  Fonts  de  Paris  above  the  grinding  machinery,  was 
acceptable. 

"  Won't  you  come  for  a  ride  ?  "  said  Miss  Bathurst  to 
Anne.  Quivering  with  impatient  excitement,  she  rose 
from  her  seat  as  she  asked.  Anne  rose  too,  and  they  passed 
together  between  the  tables  into  the  crowd.  Ramsay's 
hands  were  clasped  between  his  knees,  and  his  body  bent 
close  to  the  table,  where  he  sat  next  to  Miss  Bathurst.  He 
raised  his  eyes,  wrinkling  his  forehead,  and  smiled.  Then 
he  shook  his  head  suddenly.  Miss  Bathurst  had  beckoned 
to  him  from  the  crowd.  Wauchope  sprawled  sideways, 
resting  his  head  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  watching  the  grog 
which  he  monotonously  stirred. 

Maurice  shifted  round  in  his  chair  to  watch.  The  two 
women  had  disappeared  into  the  shadow  of  the  crowd. 
Miss  Bathurst  emerged  and  ran  up  a  few  steps  on  to  the 
platform  and  waved  to  them.  Anne  followed  her.  They 
waited  for  the  swinging  horses  to  stop  :  while  they  waited 


406  STILL  LIFE 

they  were  festooned  with  streamers  from  the  crowd.  Miss 
Bathurst  jerked  her  hand  out  continually  to  catch  the 
streamers  in  their  flight. 

A  basket  full  of  the  coloured  papers,  rolled  up  like 
ribbons  in  a  draper's  shop,  came  under  his  eyes.  He  re- 
garded them  vaguely  for  an  instant,  and  looked  upwards 
to  see  a  woman  urging  him  to  buy.  Her  eyes  were  turned 
towards  the  roundabout,  and  she  looked  down  again  at  her 
basket  only  when  he  took  a  handful  and  paid  the  money. 
As  she  moved  to  the  next  table  he  got  up  and  threaded  his 
way  through  the  people.  On  the  pavement  he  was  arrested 
by  a  voice. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are  !  "    It  was  Miss  Etheredge. 

"  Hullo,"  he  said. 

"  Going  to  throw  papers  with  the  little  boys  ?  " 

"  Yes."    He  looked  up  at  her. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  She  took  hold 
of  his  arm  ;  it  was  limp  and  unresisting  in  her  hand. 

"  Nothing.  ...  I'm  only  a  bit  tired." 

"  Little  boys  shouldn't  be  let  loose  in  this  wicked  town," 
she  mocked,  but  kept  hold  of  his  arm  :  and  so  they  stood 
close  together  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  looking  towards 
the  horses. 

"  Is  that  Miss  Bathurst  up  there  ? . . .  and  Mrs.  Cradock  ? 
...  it  is  ...  yes,  Miss  Bathurst  would  be  Bohemian, 
thoroughly  Bohemian.  Give  me  one  of  those." 

He  held  out  his  handful.  As  the  horse  that  Miss  Bathurst 
rode,  side  saddle,  facing  the  crowd,  clutching  ineffectually 
at  the  streamers,  intoxicated  with  delight,  came  round  to 
view  again  Miss  Etheredge  launched  her  missile.  It  fell 
feebly  on  the  edge  of  the  platform. 

"  No,  I'm  no  good  at  this.  ..."  She  looked  round  at  the 
cafe  tables.  "  Who's  there  ?  " 

"  Ramsay,  Wauchope,  Anne,  Miss  Bathurst  and  me." 

"  Mr.  Beauchamp  isn't  there  ?  " 

"  No.  ...  I  haven't  seen  him  since  last  night." 

The  organ  and  the  horses  stopped.  Neither  Miss  Bathurst 


STILL  LIFE  407 

nor  Anne  dismounted.  Anne  rode  in  a  monstrous  white 
swan,  alone,  leaning  backwards ;  she  never  looked  to  right 
or  left.  Miss  Etheredge  and  Maurice  moved  forwards  as 
the  people  crowded  behind  them.  Out  of  the  general  sea 
of  faces  shot  quick  arms,  and  above  the  general  tumult 
sounded  loud  explosive  laughs.  The  horses  and  chariots 
swung  so  swiftly  and  lightly  round  that  they  blurred  before 
Maurice's  eyes.  One  thing  alone  was  steady  before  him, 
the  figure  of  a  man  in  brilliant  white  shoes  who  stood  in 
the  dark  centre  of  the  roundabout,  with  his  back  against  a 
column  of  mirrors,  moving  his  feet  in  little  sideways  steps, 
instinctively,  so  that  he  was  always  turned  towards  them. 
Anne  soared  in  her  swan  for  an  instant,  sank  again,  and 
was  gone. 

He  turned  round  suddenly  and  looked  behind  him.  Miss 
Etheredge  felt  him  start  and  turned  with  him.  She  saw 
only  a  horizon  of  uplifted  faces  looking  intently  before  them. 

"  Someone  you  know  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  thought  I  recognized  a  voice  .  .  ."  he  said. 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  Oh,  somewhere  behind  .  .  .  but  it  was  a  mistake." 

The  organ  and  the  horses  stopped  again.  The  great 
machine  waited  and  throbbed  and  sang.  The  pair  of  riders 
reappeared  on  the  platform  and  descended  the  steps. 
Maurice  and  Miss  Etheredge  edged  their  way  out  of  the 
crowd,  pausing  on  the  pavement. 

"  Is  there  a  table  near  you  ?  " 

"  The  next  one."  Maurice  pointed  to  a  round  table  next 
to  Anne's,  divided  from  hers  by  a  gangway. 

"  Good. ...  I  mustn't  be  too  close."  She  went  to  it,  and 
Maurice  to  his  own  seat,  half-turned  towards  the  round- 
about. 

Miss  Bathurst  saw  Miss  Etheredge  and  turned  without 
a  word  to  her  seat. 

"  So  you  enjoyed  that,  Jane  ?  "  asked  Ramsay. 

"  It  was  fine,"  she  said.  While  she  went  on  in  praise  of 
roundabouts  she  glanced  uneasily  behind  her  at  the  vacant 


408  STILL  LIFE 

seat.  She  felt  that  it  was  a  dereliction  that  Anne  should 
sit  beside  Miss  Etheredge.  Miss  Etheredge,  while  she  spoke 
to  Anne,  was  looking  continually  to  the  other  table  and 
sketched  ostentatiously  in  her  book.  Anne,  with  her  hands 
in  her  muff,  leant  forward  and  watched  her. 

"  Etheredge  is  immortalising  you,  Wauchope,"  said  Miss 
Bathurst. 

Wauchope  was  still  sprawling  beside  the  table  with  his 
head  sideways  upon  his  hand.  He  was  scraping  the  bottom 
of  his  glass  with  a  spoon. 

"  Well,  she'll  do  it  if  anybody  will,"  he  said. 

Miss  Bathurst  had  not  expected  that  answer.  She  went 
on  talking  briskly  to  Ramsay,  who  listened,  half-attentive, 
watching  the  crowd  in  front  of  him.  Occasionally,  she 
glanced  at  Maurice,  staring  at  the  curtained  window  of  the 
cafe. 

"  Did  you  have  a  nice  dinner  ?  "  Miss  Etheredge  asked 
Anne. 

;c  Yes,  I  suppose  so.    I  didn't  notice  it  very  much." 

"  Miss  Bathurst  did  the  honours — of  Paris  ?  "     Miss 
Etheredge  pretended  to  be  engrossed  in  her  sketching,  and 
did  not  wait  to  be  answered.    "  She  gets  it  all  from  Bill.  .  .  . 
I  said  your  Mr.  Beauchamp  wouldn't  be  here,  didn't  I  ? " 
'  Yes.  ...  I  didn't  expect  him,  myself." 

"  Temple  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  happy.  But  then  we 
aren't  exactly  bursting  with  joy.  ...  What  does  he  want  to 
go  and  sit  there  for  ?  "  She  called  his  name  across  the 
gangway,  and  he  came  over  and  sat  by  them,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  your  friend  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Etheredge. 

"  My  friend  .  .  .  ?  "  he  repeated,  bewildered.  "  Oh,  you 
mean  Dennis.  I  don't  know  where  he  is." 

"  Getting  rid  of  his  money  at  Montmartre.  That's  a 
thing  we  all  do  alone.  It's  more  economical.  Unless  we 
can  do  it  with  someone  else's  money.  .  .  .  Where  are  those 
ribbons  you  had  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  409 

He  thrust  his  hand  absently  into  his  pocket.  "  I  wonder 
what  I  did  with  them  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  met  him  at  the  corner  of  the  crowd  there.  He  had  a 
handful  to  shy  at  you,"  she  said  to  Anne.  "  Put  'em  on 
the  table." 

He  spread  the  rolls  of  coloured  paper  on  the  table  before 
her,  slowly,  as  though  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  arrange  them 
in  an  ordered  pattern.  Anne  looked  at  them.  To  her  they 
seemed  strange,  unaccountable  things. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  get  me  something  to  drink  ? 
You're  not  such  a  nice,  thoughtful  boy  as  you  used  to  be." 

While  he  beckoned  a  waiter,  he  nodded  his  head  slowly. 
"  I  suppose  I'm  different,"  he  said.  Miss  Etheredge  stopped 
sketching  and  looked  at  him.  She  took  up  one  of  the  rolls 
of  paper  from  the  table,  put  it  down,  and  looked  at  him 
again.  '  You're  too  young,"  she  said,  "  for  Paris.  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  "  She  turned  to  Anne,  who  seemed  to  be 
surprised  at  the  question  and  smiled  as  though  she  did  not 
comprehend  it. 

"  I  must  go  and  say  '  How  d'ye  do '  to  my  friends. 
I'm  very  polite  by  nature."  Miss  Etheredge  put  her  book 
down  on  the  table.  "  You're  not  to  look  at  it.  I'll  have 
a  vermouth  cassis" 

They  both  watched  her  as  she  went  across  to  the  others, 
looking  steadily  away  from  them.  She  greeted  Ramsay, 
who  shook  her  hand.  Miss  Bathurst  fixed  her  eyes  upon 
the  table,  shrinking  back  into  her  seat.  They  saw  Wau- 
chope  raise  himself  and  hold  out  his  hand  to  her,  unex- 
pectedly. She,  unexpecting,  made  as  if  to  take  it,  and  then 
drew  back.  He  let  his  hand  fall  limp  and  flat  upon  the  table. 

Anne  turned  away  and  began  to  finger  the  rolls  of  paper. 
"  Did  you  buy  these  ?  "  she  said. 

He  nodded.  Somehow  he  could  not  answer  the  tone  of 
her  question  in  words.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  fingers 
which  held  a  roll  poised  between. 

;c  You  didn't  throw  any  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said.     The  word  came  easily,  but  from  a 


410  STILL  LIFE 

distance,  from  other  lips  than  his  own.  "  I  wish  ..."  the 
unfamiliar  tone  that  made  the  words  so  distant  cutjiiin 
short.  Anne  looked  at  him,  and  the  sight  of  the  vague  pain 
in  his  face,  pain  that  would  not  take  shape,  save  in  an 
expression  of  his  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  frightened  of 
nothing  definite,  was  so  sharp  a  stab  that  it  would  have 
killed  her.  It  touched  a  hidden  place  and  was  gone.  The 
whole  world  of  her  sight  and  thought  became  grotesque. 
She  wanted  to  laugh.  She  felt  she  must  laugh. 

"  No,  it  doesn't  matter,"  he  said.  His  head  bent  down. 
He  tilted  his  chair  backwards  and  looked  at  the  ground 
beneath.  Anne  looked  across  at  Miss  Etheredge.  She 
seemed  to  be  making  large  fantastic  gestures  towards 
Wauchope.  Maurice's  hat  seemed  to  cut  one-half  from  her 
vision.  It  was  monstrous  and  huge.  She  held  her  hand- 
kerchief tight  in  her  hand  for  fear  that  she  should  laugh 
at  that. 

It  suddenly  tilted  upwards.  She  could  see  Maurice 
tighten  all  over.  The  very  chair  in  which  he  sat  seemed  to 
tremble  with  a  sudden  rigidity.  A  woman  talking  loudly 
swept  by  her  back.  She  saw  the  black  sleeve  brush  his 
neck,  and  as  the  woman  passed  by  him  up  the  gangway 
into  the  cafe,  she  saw  him  look  after  her,  and  the  tautness 
in  him  relax.  He  leant  over  the  table,  sliding  his  elbow 
against  Miss  Etheredge's  sketchbook,  and  began  to  stand 
the  rolls  of  coloured  paper  each  on  end,  balancing  them 
carefully  upon  the  edge  of  paper  that  they  should  not  roll 
away.  Anne  knew  that  he  had  thought  the  woman  was 
Madeleine. 

"  What  was  it  you  were  going  to  say,  Morry  ?  "  she 
asked.  He  raised  himself.  He  was  white,  and  a  weak, 
pitiful  smile  passed  unsteadily  over  his  lips.  Anne  felt  that 
her  eyes  were  brimming  with  her  uncontrollable  anguish 
for  laughter.  She  clenched  her  handkerchief  inside  her 
muff  with  all  her  strength. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  with  the  same  smile,  "  it  was  too  silly,  too 
silly " 


STILL  LIFE  411 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  she  said,  sharply. 

He  looked  away  from  her  eyes  at  her  muff.  "  I  was  only 
going  to  ask  if  you'd  come  for  a  ride  with  me.  .  .  .  There  are 
some  motor-cars  there  with  two  seats.  I  saw  them.  .  .  . 
It's  too  silly.  It  doesn't  matter  now." 

"  Of  course  I'll  come,"  she  said.  "  But  you  don't  want 
to  go  now  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes."  She  said  it  as  though  it  hurt  her,  and  rose.  He 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  followed  her. 

Miss  Etheredge  stopped  Anne  in  the  gangway. 

"  You're  going  to  have  a  ride — together  ?  " 

Anne  broke  into  a  quiet  laughter.  While  she  did  so  she 
caught  hold  of  Miss  Etheredge  by  the  arm,  and  leaned  for 
a  moment  heavily  against  her,  or  she  would  have  fallen. 

"  Only,  it's  so  ridiculous,  so  foolish,"  she  said.  She  held 
herself  upright. 

"  Come  on,  Morry,"  she  said. 

He  came  to  her  side  and  took  her  arm.  "  Is  anything 
wrong  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Nothing  .  .  .  nothing  at  all ...  it's  just  excitement .  .  . 
come  on  ...  it's  riding  with  you  in  a  motor-car  ...  on  a 
roundabout." 

"  I'm  coming,  too,"  said  Miss  Etheredge.  Together, 
with  Anne  in  the  middle,  they  descended  to  the  pavement 
and  into  the  crowd. 

On  the  top  of  the  wooden  steps  they  waited  for  the 
roundabout  and  the  music  to  stop.  To  Maurice  the  horses 
and  the  cars  flew  by  in  a  maddened  dream.  To  Anne  it 
was  as  though  nothing  had  ever  been  real  before,  save  those 
empty  seats  that  swung  past  her,  and  that  music  shrieking 
in  the  air  about  her.  Already  they  were  festooned  with 
streamers. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  swan,"  said  Miss  Etheredge.  "  I 
think  a  swan  would  be  very  becoming  to  me.  It  suits  my 
personality." 

Into  Maurice's  mind  continually  thrust  those  perfect 


412  STILL  LIFE 

rolls  of  paper  on  the  table  behind  them.  They  were  being 
wasted. 

Miss  Etheredge's  swan  was  in  front  of  their  motor-car. 
As  they  sat  down,  they  saw  her  gather  the  reins  of  her  bird. 
Anne  laughed.  As  the  moan  of  the  engine  died  away  into 
the  swelling  noise  of  the  organ,  she  was  laughing  still. 
Maurice  looked  at  her.  They  could  not  speak  for  the  noise. 
She  pointed  to  Miss  Etheredge  holding  the  reins  of  her 
swan  and  laughed  again.  An  emptiness  that  had  been  in 
Maurice  seemed  to  swell  and  swallow  him  up.  The  whole 
world  rushed  away  from  him  with  the  roundabout.  He 
felt  sick  in  his  body,  and  waited  through  an  age  for  it  to 
stop.  He  forgot  that  Anne  was  beside  him.  He  saw  only 
two  hands  that  clasped  his  wrists  while  he  held  the  dummy 
steering  wheel. 

The  horses  and  the  music  stopped. 

"  The  swan  would  have  been  all  right  if  it  hadn't  started 
bucking,"  said  Miss  Etheredge. 

"  It's  the  last  time  for  me,"  said  Anne. 

Maurice  followed  them  down  the  stairs  into  the  blackness 
of  the  crowd.  They  sat  down  together  at  the  table. 

4  You  aren't  very  enlivening,  either  of  you,"  began  Miss 
Etheredge.  Her  fingers  played  nervously  round  the  stem 
of  her  glass.  "  We  couldn't  be  called  a  cheerful  party, 
could  we  ?  What  a  pity  your  Mr.  Beauchamp  isn't  here. 
We  might  go  off  to  the  Olympia  together,  five  in  a  fiacre. 
Wauchope  would  come.  He's  sad  enough.  You  might  get 
it  out  of  him,  Anne."  It  was  the  first  time  that  Miss  Ether- 
edge  had  called  her  Anne.  "  It  might  be  Netta.  I'd  like 
to  know.  Go  and  try  to  get  it  out  of  him." 

Anne  picked  up  a  roll  of  the  paper.  While  she  shook  her 
head  she  put  it  in  her  rnufi. 

"  No,  I  suppose  you  couldn't.  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
know  ?  But  you  don't  know  Wauchope.  There's  some- 
thing fine  at  the  bottom  of  him.  All  that  coldness,  all  that 
staring  at  you — that's  only  the  outside.  Underneath 
there's  something  fine,  I  tell  you.  All  that's  only  to  prevent 


STILL  LIFE  413 

you  hurting  him.  He's  j ust  like  a  child  beneath,  frightened. 
It  comes  out  when  he's  like  this.  Somebody  gets  through 
the  armour  and  it's  all  up.  He's  worth  fifty  Bills  and  a 
thousand  Bathursts.  I'd  h'ke  to  know  what  it  was  that  did 
it  to-night.  Was  he  like  that  at  dinner  ?  " 

;'  Yes,  he  was,"  said  Maurice. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  spoke  to  him." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I've  forgotten  .  .  .  something  that  I  was  feeling.  .  .  . 
He  said  he  felt  like  that.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  didn't  say  it,  but 
I  knew." 

"  So  you've  found  it  out,  have  you  ?  You're  growing  up. 
You  found  it  out  through  that  girl  of  yours.  What  was  her 
name  ?  Madeleine.  I  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Cradock,  he'll 
be  getting  quite  interesting  soon." 

The  words  hovered  in  Maurice's  mind.  Yes,  he  was 
quite  interesting.  He  was  a  man  with  a  tragedy.  He  was 
different  from  all  those  other  people.  He  was  making  a 
past  now.  A  strange  question  confronted  him.  "  How 
long  do  interesting  people  live  ?  "  They  can't  keep  it  up 
for  many  years.  No,  he  wasn't  interesting  at  all.  The 
whole  structure  of  his  tragedy  dissolved.  There  was  Made- 
leine, crying  so  quietly  that  you  could  not  see  the  tears 
before  they  had  fallen. 

"  I  wonder  what  Netta's  done  to  him — or  what  he's  done 
to  Netta.  She'll  come  and  tell  me  one  of  these  days,  but  I 
want  to  know  now  .  .  .  I'll  go  and  ask  him."  Miss  Ether- 
edge  suddenly  rose  half-way  up  from  her  chair  and  sank 
back  again.  "  No,  I'd  better  not.  I  can't." 

"  I'll  go  then,"  said  Anne. 

"  No  ...  no  ...  I  didn't  really  mean  it.  He  won't  tell 
you.  He  can't  tell  you  in  front  of  those  two." 

"  I'll  see,"  said  Anne.  Miss  Etheredge  followed  her  with 
her  eyes,  as  she  went  across  and  sat  by  Wauchope's  side. 
They  began  to  talk.  Miss  Bathurst  leant  slowly  forward 
to  listen,  pretending  to  be  the  more  engrossed  in  Ramsay's 


414  STILL  LIFE 

diagrams  on  the  table.  Anne  felt,  while  she  spoke,  that  the 
ball  of  paper  was  cutting  into  her  hand.  Miss  Etheredge 
saw  Wauchope  change  his  seat.  From  opposite  Miss 
Bathurst  he  moved  away  to  the  little  round  table  where 
Maurice  and  Anne  had  sat. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  anything  ?  "  Miss  Etheredge  asked 
Maurice.  "  Can't  think  of  anything  clever  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  What  is  it  then,  for  God's  sake  ?  Thinking  of  the  old 
days  when  we  all  loved  you,  because  you  were  so  young 
and  thought  yourself  so  clever  ?  Or  are  you  just  hating 
me?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did  hate 
you,"  he  said.  "  What  is  there  to  say  ?  " 

"  Quite  a  lot  of  things,  seeing  I'm  interested."  She  was 
looking  at  her  sketch-book,  drawing  again,  and  he  was 
watching  her.  "  I  always  like  to  know  the  history  of  these 
little  affairs.  When  did  you  meet  Mrs.  C.  ?  What  did  you 
say  to  her  ?  How  did  you  manage  it  ?  Is  she  charming 
in  bed  ?  Tell  me  all  that,  and  I'll  be  delighted,  really." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  would.  But  we'll  leave  all  that  to 
some  other  time.  Or  I'll  write  you  a  nice  long  letter.  Don't 
you  think  you  might  tell  me  something  about  yourself  in- 
stead ?  ...  It  doesn't  matter  very  much,  anyway." 

"  Or  you  can  tell  me  when  she's  going  to  leave  you  or 
you're  going  to  leave  her.  Are  you  going  to  live  happily 
ever  after,  and  where  are  you  going  to  do  it  ?  You'll  have 
to  do  that  very  soon.  It's  not  safe  for  you  to  be  roaming 
about,  without  a  sense  of  humour." 

"  You  don't  think  so  ?  " 

"  I'm  quite  sure  of  it.  ...  You're  too  damn  selfish  alto- 
gether," she  burst  out.  ;'  You'd  suck  the  life  out  of  any- 
body and  never  give  anything  back.  You're  blind,  you 
selfish  little  beast,  you  can't  see  it.  You  think  you're  a 
damned  hero,  because  you  go  about  and  everybody  gives 
you  things,  like  pouring  water  into  a  pitcher  with  a  hole  in 
it.  You  can't  see  that,  can  you  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  415 

"  Yes,  I  can,"  he  said.  "  But  what's  the  use  ?  I've 
learnt  something  about  myself,  don't  worry.  I  know  all 
you  say  is  true,  but  that  don't  change  it.  D'you  think  I 
get  any  fun  out  of  it  ?  " 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  We're  not  the  kind  of 
people  to  go  for  each  other.  That's  true.  You've  changed. 
I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  long  time,  that's  all.  You  wouldn't 
come  to  see  me  this  afternoon.  Why  didn't  you  ?  You're 
not  frightened  of  me,  are  you  ?  " 

"  No.  ...  I  don't  think  I  am.  I  don't  know  why,  but  if 
I  came,  I  should  come  alone." 

"  It  didn't  matter.  Mrs.  C.  and  I  had  a  nice  intimate 
conversation.  Oh  !  very  nice  and  intimate.  That's  why 
I'm  such  an  angel  now.  You'd  have  spoilt  that  for  certain. 
Don't  you  see  I'm  behaving  very  well  indeed  ?  But  what's 
the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Are  you  hard  up  ?    Because  ..." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Well.  .  .  .  Let's  go  and  finish  up  these  ribbons.  They'll 
be  shutting  up  the  show  soon."  She  gathered  up  half  of 
them  in  her  hands  and  he  followed  with  the  rest.  They 
stood  at  the  edge  of  the  crowd.  The  man  in  the  white  shoes 
came  forward  to  the  top  of  the  steps  and  shouted  out  that 
it  was  the  last  turn  but  one.  "  Onferme  a  minuit"  The 
whole  crowd  seemed  to  surge  forward  on  to  the  steps.  Into 
the  swans,  on  the  horses,  swarmed  pairs.  Into  the  motor-cars 
crowded  fours.  It  took  a  long  while  for  the  men  to  collect 
the  money.  The  machine  revolved  more  slowly  under  the 
new  weight.  Even  the  organ  seemed  to  groan-painfully. 

"  Good  God !  "  Maurice  heard  Miss  Etheredge  say 
abruptly,  and  then  to  him,  "  There's  the  beautiful  Bowley. 
.  .  .  And  Netta,  too,  the  beauty."  She  was  pointing  to  a 
pair  on  a  horse,  slowly  swinging  out  of  sight,  moving  faster 
while  he  watched.  The  woman  wore  a  round  black  cap 
that  might  have  been  of  astrakhan.  It  showed  plainly 
against  the  long  white  woollen  coat  which  she  wore  tight 


416  STILL  LIFE 

round  her  slim  body.  She  was  kicking  hot  legs  outward, 
for  the  admiration  of  the  crowd.  The  crowd  admired. 
They  roared  out  "  Bravo  "  and  "  Bis,"  and  showered  her 
with  paper  garlands.  Of  the  man  Maurice  could  see  no 
more  than  that  he  was  fat  and  wore  check  trousers,  and  sat 
with  a  nervous  firmness  upon  his  horse.  He  had  no  brass 
pillar  to  hold  on  to. 

"  No,  she's  only  half  what  she  can  be  now.  But  you  can 
see  she's  different  from  the  rest.  Why  even  in  the  way  she 
kicks  out  her  legs  she's  got  personality.  What  on  earth 
does  she  want  with  Bowley  ?  I  don't  know.  '  Bowley's 
a  dar-r-ling,' "  she  quoted. 

The  two  flew  by  again  and  again.  Suddenly  Miss  Ether- 
edge  threw  a  roll  of  ribbon.  She  had  not  unfastened  it. 
It  travelled  like  a  stone  and  hit  the  wooden  horse  beneath 
Netta's  feet. 

"  You  have  to  undo  those  things  before  you  throw  them. 
Else  they  don't  spread.  They  might  hurt  somebody." 

"  I  knew  that,"  she  said.  "  Well,  no  luck.  Let's  finish 
'em  up."  She  threw  them  one  after  the  other,  quickly, 
aiming  at  no  particular  mark.  "  Come  on,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing back  to  the  cafe.  "  She  can  go  to  hell  for  all  I  care.  .  .  . 
Anne's  still  getting  a  confession  out  of  Wauchope.  .  .  . 
Remember,"  she  said  quickly,  "  if  you're  ever  stranded 
here  and  you  don't  know  where  to  go  there's  always  a  room 
where  I  live." 

Wauchope  passed  them  in  the  gangway.  Without 
pausing  he  raised  his  hat  to  Miss  Etheredge.  "  Good 
night,"  he  said.  "  Good  night,  Temple."  Maurice  watched 
him  until  he  was  round  the  corner  and  hurrying  down  the 
boulevard.  He  felt  that  he  could  have  spoken  to  Wauchope, 
that  Wauchope  had  something  to  say  to  him.  The  unex- 
pected address — "  Good  night,  Temple  " — left  a  pang  of 
regret  behind  it.  Now  he  would  never  hear  what 
Wauchope  had  to  say. 

"  Netta  makes  him  pay  for  it.  She's  a  devil,  when  she's 
like  this.  Oh,  he's  got  something  to  go  through.  The  fool ! " 


STILL  LIFE  417 

Miss  Bathurst  was  standing  ready  to  go.  Ramsay  was 
paying  his  bill.  She  asked  Anne  if  she  was  coming  too. 
"  We  go  the  same  way,  I  think— down  the  hill." 

Maurice  went  back  to  pay. 

"  Well,  I'd  better  go  home  too,"  said  Miss  Etheredge. 
"  Good  night,  Mrs.  Cradock.  It's  been  enough  for  one  day. 
Good  night." 

"  But  aren't  you  coming  with  us  ?  " 

"  No.  ...  It  wouldn't  do.  Miss  Bathurst  would  object. 
Not  at  all  desirable  company  to  keep  nowadays,  you  know 
— declasse,  absolutely  declasse. ' '  She  was  j ust  within  earshot 
of  Miss  Bathurst. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  Anne.  "  Which  way  are  you 
going  ?  " 

"  Up  the  hill  for  me,  turn  to  the  right,  and  down  again. 
...  I  don't  see  why  she  shouldn't  go  the  long  way  for  once. 
.  .  .  But  I  won't  suggest  it.  I  wonder  what  she  would  do 
if  I  went  to  speak  to  her." 

Maurice  caught  them  up  on  the  pavement.  The  great 
arc  light  of  the  roundabout  went  out,  just  as  a  big  clock 
began  to  strike  the  hour  of  midnight.  They  were  very 
punctual.  Two  agents  stood  together  in  the  middle  of  the 
square  watching.  That  was  the  reason.  Some  men,  faint 
shadows  in  the  darkness,  were  pulling  a  tall  tarpaulin  that 
gradually  moved  round  the  side  of  the  roundabout  and 
made  it  look  like  a  tent.  The  white  shoes  of  the  man  who 
had  stood  in  the  middle  were  conspicuous.  They  seemed 
to  twinkle  in  the  shadow  of  the  tarpaulin.  Out  in  the  light 
of  the  moon,  a  woman  in  a  long  grey  coat,  with  a  black 
scarf  about  her  neck  and  her  hands  down  in  her  deep 
pockets,  watched  them  with  a  familiar  interest. 

"  Morry  " — Anne  spoke  to  him — "  go  with  the  others. 
Explain  that  I'm  going  to  walk  home  with  Miss  Etheredge. 
I  shan't  be  very  long." 

"  All  right.  ..."  He  paused  to  say  good-bye  to  Miss 
Ethercdge. 

"  Trot  along  home  like  a  good  boy,"  she  said,  "  and 

2   E 


418  STILL  LIFE 

don't  get  lost.  You  can  give  my  love  to  Miss  Bathurst,  if 
you  like." 

The  other  two  had  walked  on  very  slowly.  They  were 
now  at  the  corner  of  the  boulevard.  He  walked  after  them. 
At  the  corner  he  looked  back,  and  saw  Anne  and  Miss 
Etheredge  on  the  other  side  of  the  square.  While  he  looked, 
they  disappeared  into  the  shadow. 

"  You're  coming  by  yourself  ?  "  asked  Miss  Bathurst. 
Maurice  explained. 

"  Haven't  seen  much  of  you  to-night,"  said  Kamsay, 
"  and  when  I  have  you've  been  very  quiet.  Getting  sick 
of  talking  at  last  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  not  that.  I've  been  thinking  about  something 
else  most  of  the  time.  I  can't  do  two  things  at  once." 

"  You're  not  tired  of  Paris  ?  "  said  Miss  Bathurst.  "  I 
never  think  what  other  people  might  feel.  It  seems  to  me 
wonderful  always.  But  it  might  be  tiring  if  you  aren't 
actually  painting,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  I  always  like  it.  I  like  walking  down  the  streets. 
As  a  matter  of  fact.  I  think  I  never  do  get  tired  here.  Any- 
how, it's  a  place  I  always  remember  vividly." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Eamsay.  "  There's  something  clean 
about  the  place  that  sticks  in  the  mind.  .  .  .  Besides,  you 
left  your  heart  behind  here  once,  after  all.  That  makes  a 
difference,  I  should  imagine." 

Miss  Bathurst  laughed,  as  though  she  enjoyed  laughing. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  it  does  make  a  difference,"  said  Maurice. 

"  /  should  have  thought  so,"  laughed  Miss  Bathurst. 

"  What's  Wauchope's  address  ?  "  asked  Maurice. 

"  42  rue  de  la  Grande  Fermiere.  .  .  .  Why  ?  Do  you 
want  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  might  go  to  see  him  one  day — that's  all. 
I  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall." 

"  It's  a  bit  too  late  now,  at  any  rate.  He's  going  away 
by  the  train  at  twenty  past  twelve.  He  was  running  to 
catch  it  then.  But  he  only  just  made  up  his  mind  in  time. 
It  took  him  one  minute  to  decide.  He  was  off  well  inside  it . " 


STILL  LIFE  419 

"  It  was  just  as  though  your  wife  had  advised  him. 
Really  it  was,"  said  Miss  Bathurst.  "  He  hadn't  any  idea 
he  was  going  before.  He  was  arranging  a  party  with  us 
for  Thursday,  wasn't  he,  Bill  ?  " 

"  Yes,  more  or  less.  .  .  .  You  were  doing  the  arranging. 
.  .  .  He's  gone  off,  anyhow." 

The  pain  which  Maurice  had  felt  when  Wauchope  passed 
him  stung  him  more.  Wauchope  had  passed  clean  away 
now.  He  might  write  to  him,  now  that  he  had  the  address. 
But  what  was  he  to  write  about  ? 

"  You  go  over  the  bridge,  don't  you  ?  "  said  Ramsay. 
"  We  go  along  here.  .  .  .  Well,  when  am  I  going  to  see  you 
again  ?  You  were  very  unsatisfactory  at  dinner.  ..." 

"  And  when  are  you  coming  to  see  me  ?  "  chimed  Miss 
Bathurst.  "I've  heard  you're  so  brilliant.  You  must  give 
me  a  chance  to  make  quite  certain." 

"  When  do  you  think  you're  going  away  from  Paris,  any- 
how ? . . .  Oh,  you  said  you  didn't  know. . . .  You're  terribly 
vague." 

"  I'm  thinking  of  going  to-morrow  morning,"  said 
Maurice  on  an  impulse. 

"  That's  silly  .  .  .  what  the  devil  for,  might  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Not  trying  to  imitate  Wauchope  ?  "  said  Miss  Bathurst. 

Maurice  looked  at  her  hard.  The  words  seemed  to  have 
stung  him.  He  discovered  nothing  in  her  face  however. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  he  answered  her.  "  I  think  I  am, 
all  the  same.  You  know  we're  used  to  the  country,  and 
even  Paris  begins  to  get  on  Anne's  nerves.  It's  the  noise." 

"  He's  not  really  going,"  said  Miss  Bathurst.  Maurice 
did  not  worry  about  her  any  more  after  that. 

"  I  should  think  it  over  at  any  rate,"  said  Ramsay, 
"  and  if  you  do  change  your  mind,  you  might  as  well  come 
and  see  me  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"  Well,  I'll  say  good-bye  in  case." 

They  said  "  Good-bye,"  and  Maurice  hurried  over  the 
bridge,  walking  as  though  he  had  no  time  to  lose. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MAUEICE'S  purpose  was  clear  in  his  mind  while  he  walked 
along.  It  was  clearer  and  more  compelling  because  it  was 
immediate  and  practical,  something  to  be  done  and  to  be 
done  now.  He  must  get  away  from  the  hotel  before  Anne 
returned.  Then  .  .  .  then  he  would  go  to  Lesdigues  to  find 
Madeleine.  His  walk  passed  into  a  trot,  from  a  trot  into 
a  steady  run.  That  he  should  hail  a  cab  never  came  into 
his  mind.  The  continual  and  increasing  bodily  movement, 
as  he  ran,  satisfied  his  yearning  to  act,  and  he  felt  nothing 
save  that  yearning  and  its  satisfaction.  Outside  the  hotel 
he  dropped  into  a  walk  again.  He  accepted  an  instinctive 
warning  not  to  attract  attention,  and  he  passed  the  ambush 
of  the  lighted  bureau  with  brisk  intention,  but  unhurried. 
He  glanced  at  the  clock  when  he  began  to  pack.  It  was 
twenty  minutes  past  twelve.  His  eyes  returned  to  it  con- 
stantly while  he  gathered  together  his  possessions.  They 
suggested  themselves  to  him  in  the  order  of  their  im- 
portance. Deliberately  he  left  behind  all  the  newly-bought 
clothes  that  he  had  brought  with  him  from  London. 
Money — he  counted  nine  hundred  francs  from  his  drawer — 
such  of  his  old  clothes  as  were  clean — for  these  he  rum- 
maged carefully,  replacing  the  new  things  which  he  had 
disturbed.  These  included  in  a  small  bag,  he  looked  once 
more  at  the  clock.  Twenty-six  minutes  past.  All  Anne's 
familiar  toilet  things  were  on  the  table.  He  sat  down  on 
the  couch  in  front  of  them  and  stared.  Then  he  bent  his 
head  in  his  hands  and  passed  his  fingers  nervously  over  his 
forehead.  The  touch  seemed  to  determine  his  first  and 
only  hesitation.  He  caught  hold  of  the  bag  and  went 
downstairs.  During  the  brief  moment  of  descent  he  debated 

420 


STILL  LIFE  421 

in  himself  whether  he  should  speak  with  the  bureau.  They 
might  suspect  him.  He  decided  against  it,  and  passed 
quickly  outside  the  hotel,  along  the  street  into  the  Place 
de  1'Opera. 

Then  it  was  that  the  desire  to  see  Madeleine  took  hold  of 
him.  He  welcomed  its  urgent  monopoly  of  his  mind.  It 
was  more  than  a  desire.  It  was  a  justification  that  would 
not  fail  him  in  his  necessity.  He  was  filled  with  a  sense  of 
triumph  and  right  as  he  mounted  into  an  open  fiacre  and 
was  borne  softly  with  a  pleasant  tinkling  of  bells  to  the 
Gare  d'Orleans.  He  leaned  back  and  let  the  darkened 
streets  ripple  quietly  before  his  eyes.  Madeleine  came 
gently  into  his  vision.  Now  it  was  as  though  they  had 
never  parted.  Two  years  fell  away  from  him  like  the 
curtain  of  a  dream.  Already  he  was  bathed  in  the  happi- 
ness of  loving  reconciliation.  C'est  toi,  mon  bien  aime.  .  .  . 
A  new  and  unexpected  thought  came  like  a  spark  of  added 
warmth  and  radiantly  glowed  within  him,  slowly  fanned. 
Perhaps  he  had  a  child.  Perhaps  she  had  lied  when  she 
wrote  to  him  to  say  that  the  danger  was  over.  She  would 
have  done  that  to  hold  him  then.  The  nightmare  of  his  old 
life  was  now  the  promise  of  the  new.  A  slow  and  steady 
certainty  crept  into  this  thought.  And  then  he  was  sad 
because  the  child  would  now  be  nearly  two  years  old.  He 
had  not  been  there  while  it  was  a  tiny  baby.  He  could  see 
Madeleine  holding  it  to  her.  He  remembered  how  she  had 
spoken  on  that  day  when  she  said  so  deliberately  and 
quietly  :  "  Je  crois  que  tu  ne  m'aimes  pas.  ...  Si  j'avais 
seulement  un  petit  Maurice,  je  serais  content.  ..."  His 
tenderness  was  sweet,  but  near  to  tears  when  the  cab 
stopped  outside  the  station. 

There  would  be  no  train  to  Lesdigues  until  half-past 
seven  in  the  morning.  But  surely  there  were  fast  trains  in 
the  night-time.  Surely,  but  Lesdigues  ..."  c'est  un  tout 
petit  village,  monsieur.  Les  rapides  ne  s'arretent  jamais, 
jamais  .  .  .  Naturellement."  For  a  few  minutes  he  walked 
up  and  down  the  great  hall.  It  was  chilly  in  the  dead  hours. 


422  STILL  LIFE 

His  feet  unduly  echoed  ;  and  he  was  glad  to  come  out  into 
the  street  again.  He  wondered  for  a  moment  what  he 
should  do,  and  then  joyfully  remembered  that  there  was  a 
cafe  in  the  Market  that  never  closed  at  all.  It  was  made 
for  such  as  he.  Again  the  petulant  fever  of  his  impatience 
to  board  the  train  that  would  take  him  to  Madeleine  sub- 
sided when  he  had  a  definite  end  to  accomplish.  He  walked 
quickly  along. 

When  he  entered,  the  noise  surprised  him,  for  he  had  in 
an  hour  forgotten  his  familiarity  with  these  things.  A  pale, 
round-faced  man  with  yellow  hair  twanged  a  loud  guitar 
almost  under  his  chin,  while  he  stood,  bewildered,  in  front 
of  the  door.  The  man  looked  at  him,  made  way  for  him, 
and  watched  him  while  he  chose  a  seat  in  the  corner,  but 
the  guitar  twanged  irrevocably  on.  When  Maurice  looked 
up  again  the  man  was  still  looking  at  him,  not  with  curiosity 
but  with  the  indifferent  unoffending  stare  of  habit.  Then 
he  tucked  the  guitar  under  his  arm  and  went  to  a  table 
opposite.  Someone  had  asked  him  to  have  a  drink. 

The  sense  that  the  time  of  waiting  here  would  be  inter- 
minably long  gradually  stole  into  Maurice.  He  was  fright- 
ened of  waiting,  for  then  he  weakened  in  body  and  soul. 
Somehow  he  must  fill  up  the  long  hours.  He  asked  for  a 
pen  and  paper,  and  sat  tracing  dreamy  lines  and  fragments 
of  words,  with  his  coffee  by  his  side.  He  tried  to  reckon 
his  situation,  to  see  himself  plainly  and  to  pass  a  verdict 
upon  what  he  had  done,  but  he  could  not.  The  vision  of 
Madeleine's  surprise,  her  joy,  her  embrace  flooded  back 
over  the  feeble  barrier  of  his  thought,  which  sought  to  hold 
it  away  and  judge.  But  those  continual  visions  did  not 
fill  him  completely.  An  infinitesimal  vein  of  doubt  flowed 
with  them.  He  did  not  know  what  it  was  ;  he  only  knew 
it  was  there,  because  the  tender  triumph  he  had  felt  a  little 
while  ago  was  not  complete.  Perhaps  he  had  changed  ; 
perhaps  he  could  not  be  the  same  as  he  had  been  any  more. 
Two  years  must  mean  something.  Yet  when  he  tried  to 
find  wherein  two  years  had  brought  any  change,  he  could 


STILL  LIFE  423 

find  nothing.  He  had  been  hungry  all  the  while  forMade- 
leine,  he  said,  and  the  experience  of  two  years  fell  empty 
away  because  the  hunger  had  never  been  filled. 

The  twanging  of  the  guitar  rounded  out  his  conclusions. 
The  man  began  to  sing  Dodo,  mon  homme,  fais  vitf  dodo. 
Maurice  looked  up  to  find  the  indifferent  glance  ranging 
about  him,  as  his  pen  made  inconsequent  characters  upon 
the  paper.  Under  that  detective  eye  he  squared  himself 
instantly  to  write.  He  had  been  meaning  to  write  to  Anne. 
He  wrote  the  vague  superscription  :  "  Paris,  Wednesday," 
with  laborious  care.  The  musician's  glance  was  to  him  as 
a  schoolmaster's,  and  his  own  writing  that  of  a  copy-book. 
"Anne,  darling,"  he  began,  and  hesitated.  That  was  a  dis- 
honest address  :  it  was  unfair  to  Anne.  He  crossed  it  out 
delicately  with  a  network  of  thin  lines,  so  that  Anne  could 
see  also  what  he  had  written.  He  contemplated  this  for  a 
little  while,  and  then  crumbled  the  paper  up  and  threw  it 
angrily  to  the  floor.  Could  he  do  nothing  cleanly,  honestly, 
once  for  all  ?  He  wrote  the  superscription  again,  and  con- 
tinued slowly  but  without  hesitation. 

"  I  went  away  as  soon  as  I  got  back  to  the  hotel.  I  am 
going  to  Madeleine.  I  couldn't  tell  you  why  I  have  gone, 
because  although  I  had  to,  I  don't  know  why.  But  you 
know  much  better  than  I  do.  I  may  be  coward  enough  to 
want  to  come  back.  I  may  write  you  letters.  For  God's 
sake  never  answer  them.  But  I  know  you  never  will.  You 
don't  know  how  sad  I  am,  now  that  I've  written  that.  I 
wasn't  sad  before. 

"  I  thought  that  it  was  because  you  were  older  than  me. 
Now  I  know  it  is  because  I  am  a  coward.  Good-bye." 

He  poised  his  pen  before  the  words  :  "  You  don't  know 
how  sad  I  am,  now  that  I've  written  that.  I  wasn't  sad 
before,"  as  the  impulse  came  to  strike  them  out.  No,  it 
was  true.  Everything  in  the  letter  was  true.  He  felt  that 
at  the  last  he  had  given  a  little  thing  completely  to  Anne. 

The  swing-doors  beside  him  swung  noisily  open.  A  fat 
man  entered  boisterously,  clapping  his  hands  together. 


STILL  LIFE 

They  were  large,  flabby  hands,  but  he  brought  them  to- 
gether lustily  and  for  their  flabbiness  they  made  a  pro- 
digious noise.  He  wore  a  small  bowler  hat  tilted  backwards 
upon  a  close  mat  of  curly  grey  hair.  His  wide  face  was 
loose-lipped  and  sensual ;  but  there  was  a  pleasant  twinkle 
in  his  small  eyes.  Even  the  cheerful  blatancy  of  his 
entrance  was  comfortable.  A  younger  man  was  behind 
him,  dressed  in  breeches  and  gaiters.  His  round,  ruddy 
cheeks  and  fresh  stupid  eyes  were  rightly  crowned  by  an 
old  tweed  hat,  whose  short  brim  sagged  carelessly  round 
it.  His  fingers  were  in  his  pockets,  and  for  the  essential 
straw  he  was  chewing  the  stem  of  a  yellow  rose.  He  edged 
his  face  to  the  side  of  the  fat  man's  shoulder  and  stared 
diffidently  at  the  bar  in  front  of  him. 

"  Philippe,  mon  vieux,"  roared  the  fat  man.  The 
musician  smiled  as  though  the  phenomenon  were  familiar 
to  him. 

"  C'est  toi,  Victor  ?  "  came  the  stentorian  response  from 
behind  the  polished  partitions. 

Philippe  appeared.  Unexpectedly  he  was  spruce  and 
slim,  with  black  hair  and  notable  black  moustaches.  One 
would  have  thought  him  incapable  of  the  vigorous  welcome 
with  which  he  shook  his  Victor's  portentous  hand. 

"  One  devil — two  devils — want  supper.  Tu  en  as  de 
bon  ?  " 

Philippe  laughed.  It  must  have  been  an  old-standing 
joke,  for  it  was  not  at  all  funny.  The  fat  man  sat  down 
heavily  on  Maurice's  long  bench  before  the  table  next  to 
his.  The  younger  immediately  slipped  into  a  chair  opposite. 
Philippe  and  Victor  talked  very  quickly.  At  the  end 
Philippe's  smile  incredibly  broadened. 

"  Pas  de  blague  ?  " 

"  Les  voici." 

The  fat  man  pulled  a  clumsy  purse  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
took  out  a  small  rouleau.  "  On  gagne  quelquefois,  mon 
vieux." 

"  Je  vais  avoir  de  belles  songes.     Au  revoir.    Mais  tu 


STILL  LIFE  425 

boiras  du  bon.  Je  me'y  occupe  et  puis  fc  Dodo,  mon  horn- 
me."? 

"  Et  tu  en  as  du  meilleur  au  lit ..."  the  fat  man  roared. 
Philippe  disappeared,  more  discreetly  smiling. 

The  fat  man's  little  eyes  roamed  leisurely  about  the 
room.  They  travelled  comfortably  over  Maurice,  over  the 
musician,  and  rested  benignly  for  a  while  upon  two  women 
and  two  men  who  sat  close  to  the  counter.  There  were  no 
others  in  this  part  of  the  cafe. 

;'  Tres  peu  de  monde,"  he  said  to  the  younger,  and  then, 
robustly  translating.  "  Damn  poor  crowd  to-night."  He 
ate  with  conviction.  The  waiter  put  two  bottles  of  cham- 
pagne by  his  side.  The  fat  man  regarded  the  label  rumin- 
atively.  "  That's  a'right,"  he  said. 

That  he  was  English  solved  the  problem  of  the  younger 
man,  though  Maurice  speculated  what  he  was  doing  here. 
But  the  fat  man  was  not  so  easily  settled.  Frenchmen  did 
not  speak  such  English,  nor  Englishmen  such  French.  He 
could  not  imagine  what  they  were  ;  and  his  curiosity  only 
began  to  pass  away  while  he  contemplated  his  letter  again. 
He  addressed  and  sealed  an  envelope  and  put  hVin  his 
pocket.  The  muscian  brought  round  a  plate.  The  fat  man 
clattered  a  five-franc  piece  on  to  it.  There  was  no  ostenta- 
tion in  the  noise ;  it  was  natural  to  him.  He  whispered 
something  into  the  man's  ear,  and  he  laughed  and  nodded. 
Maurice  could  do  no  less  than  to  give  him  a  franc  now. 

The  guitar  began  again.  The  fat  man  paused  in  his  eat- 
ing, which  was  nearly  done,  to  listen.  The  younger  leaned 
his  arm  over  the  back  of  his  chair  and  watched  the  playing, 
as  though  it  were  a  miracle,  familiar,  but  still  a  miracle. 
Maurice  could  not  recognise  the  tune,  until  the  fat  man 
waved  his  hand,  and  said  :  "  Come  on  "  to  his  companion, 
and  began  to  sing,  as  he  would  have  sung  : — 

"  Good-bye,  my  bluebell, 
Farewell  to  you  .  .  ." 

Several  times  he  sang  it,  with  the  same  gesture  and  gusto. 


426  STILL  LIFE 

The  younger  man  was  shyer,  but  he  was  singing  too. 
Maurice  could  not  help  joining  in.  He  leaned  his  head  on 
his  hand  and  drew  on  the  paper  before  him  while  he  sang. 

The  fat  man's  "  bravo  "  and  "  bis  "  were  like  his  singing  ; 
but  the  player  shook  his  head.  Victor  gave  him  a  friendly 
nod,  and  then  slid  himself  heavily  along  the  seat. 

"  You're  English,  ain't  you  ?  "  he  asked  Maurice. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  come  along  here  and  have  a  drink  with  us.  It's 
good  fizz."  He  winked.  "  You  always  get  the  best  if  you 
don't  pay  for  it,  wimmen  and  wine.  ..." 

There  was  no  refusing  Victor.  Even  though  Maurice  did 
not  really  want  to  refuse  it,  he  would  have  done,  had  the 
invitation  come  from  anyone  but  Victor.  How  he  had 
always  hated  men  of  Victor's  type ;  but  Victor  was  dif- 
ferent, somehow  genuine  beneath  his  genial  and  capacious 
ruffianism.  He  slid  along  beside  him. 

"  That  young  gentlemen,"  said  Victor,  "  is  Mr.  Walter 
Thompson.  He's  as  innocent  as  'e  looks." 

Walter  reddened,  shook  Maurice  by  the  hand,  and 
chewed  at  the  rose  stem.  "  Don't  mind  'im,"  he  said. 
"  'E's  like  that." 

"  My  name's  Temple,"  said  Maurice. 

"  What's  your  job  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  ...  I  can't  make  up  my  mind." 

:'  You  came  'ere  to  make  it  up  ?  "  Victor  winked,  by  way 
of  reply  to  his  own  question.  "  A  drink  'd  do  you  good. 
Nothing  like  fizz  to  see  you  through  till  the  morning." 
Victor  interrupted  his  conversation  to  make  a  complicated 
sign  to  one  of  the  women  opposite.  Maurice  did  not  under- 
stand it ;  but  the  woman  laughed  and  Victor  reverberated. 
'  You  wouldn't  guess  what  I  am.  French  or  English  ?  " 

"  No,  I  couldn't  tell  at  all." 

"  Oh,  'e's  a  froggie,"  said  Walter. 

;'  You  'aven't  seen  one  like  me  before,  I  bet." 

Maurice  shook  his  head. 

"  Ever  been  to  Maisons  Lafitte  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  427 

"  No." 

:<  You  should.  Go  there  and  ask  anybody  who's  Victor. 
You're  a  toff,  ain't  you  ?  Down  on  your  luck  ?  "  He 
stroked  the  shoulder  of  Maurice's  coat.  "  By  gum,  that's 
natty.  You  got  that  in  London,  for  a  cert.  Don't  tell  me." 

:t  Yes,  I  did." 

"  Well,  what'  you  doing  'ere — alone  ?  Not  the  place  to 
sit  in  a  corner,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  It's  very  comfortable.  . .  .  But  I'm  waiting 
to  catch  a  train." 

"  That's  more  like.  So'm  we,  ain't  we,  Wally  ?  We'll 
catch  the  b ,  by  God,  we  will."  He  laughed  immoder- 
ately, and  generously  filled  Maurice's  glass.  Himself,  he 
drank  heroically.  "  Gar£on,  encore  une  bouteille,  la  meme 
chose." 

"  II  n'en  reste  plus,  malheureusement,  monsieur." 

"  Good  old  Phil.  I  told  you  so,  Wally.  Gave  us  'is  best, 
all  'e  'ad.  'E's  a  pal.  Alors  .  .  ."  He  chose  a  certain 

Mumm "  Cana  of  Galilee,"  he  said.    "  That  was  t'other 

way  about,  though,  wasn't  it,  sir.  .  .  .  You  see  I  know  a  bit 
about  these  things  . . .  though  I  was  a  horse-jockey  at  New- 
market twenty  years,  before  you  was  born,  I'll  swear. 

Nom  d'un  chien,  I've  let  the  b y  cat  out  of  the  bag. 

I'm  a  b y  fool,  if  ever  there  was  one.    I  wasn't  going  to 

tell  you  a  word  about  it.  ...  Come  over  'ere,  me  dear." 
He  spoke  to  a  girl  who  had  just  come  in.  She  was  very 
slim,  neatly  dressed  a  1'Anglaise,  and  she  carried  an  in- 
congruous brown -paper  parcel  under  her  arm.  "  Viens 
done,  mon  ange." 

"  C'est  toi,  vieux  brute  ?  " 

He  grinned  expansively  at  her  and  she  laughed.  "  Non, 
je  ne  bois  pas  .  .  .  rate  .  .  .  suis  sage." 

He  made  a  long,  lethargic  arm  after  her  parcel.  For  a 
little  while  she  amused  herself  in  moving  just  out  of  his 
reach.  Walter  looked  up  atuher  in  open  adoration.  "  Mon- 
trez,"  Victor  insisted.  She  gave  it  up  to  him.  "  Ce  n'est 
pas  de  la  lingerie,  alors,"  he  said,  feeling  it. 


428  STILL  LIFE 

"  Pas  de  chance,  vieux  salop." 

He  untied  the  parcel  and  examined  the  pair  of  new  boots 
that  it  contained.  "  Tres  chic,"  he  averred.  He  put  his 
hand  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  slipped  a  louis  into  the 
toe  of  the  shoe.  Then  he  packed  them  up  into  their  paper 
again.  "  J'ai  gagne  un  peu,"  he  explained.  "  Va  te 
coucher." 

"  J'y  vais,  mon  brave.  .  .  ."  She  bent  over  and  kissed 
him  on  the  cheek.  Then  she  went  round  the  partition, 
waving  her  hand  to  him. 

"  There  y'are,  Wally.  There's  a  lady  for  you.  And  she 
likes  me  a  damned  sight  better  than  she  does  you.  I'm 
fifty-six,  and  y're  twenty-three.  I'm  ashamed  of  y'." 
The  despair  in  his  tone  was  sincere. 

"  Well,  if  y'flush  y'cash  about  like  that " 

"  Y're  a  fool.  .  .  .  Ton  me  word,  you  make  me  think 
sometimes  that  you  ain't  worth  educating.  Y'couldn't  see 
that  I  gave  her  that  because  she  liked  me  !  She  didn't  like 
me  because  I  gave  her  a  quid.  You  know  that,  I  bet,"  he 
said  to  Maurice. 

Maurice  nodded. 

"  How  old  are  you,  if  I  might  ask  ?  " 

"  Twenty-four." 

"  What's  y'r  weight  ?  " 

"  Nine  stone  six." 

"  Pity  y'arn't  a  bit  smaller.  Y'd  do  well,  you  would. 
Y've  got  brains,  I'll  be  bound.  Instead  of  that  pudden- 
'ead  there."  Walter  smiled  as  at  a  familiar  compliment. 
"  What  d'y'  do  to  get  y'r  money  ?  " 

"  I  don't  get  any  now.  ...  I  used  to  write  a  bit." 

"  Stories  for  the  newspapers,  and  that  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  the  kind  of  thing." 

"  Not  much  in  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all  now." 

"  Well  .  .  .  I  c'd  put  y'into  the  way  of  making  a  little 
bit.  .  .  .  Not  much,  but  it'd  keep  y'going  if  y're  in  a  'ole.  .  .  . 
I  like  someone  to  talk  to,  I  do,  specially  if  it's  a  toll.  I 


STILL  LIFE  429 

didn't  get  'old  of  the  right  kind  of  English  when  I  was  at 
Newmarket.  You  come  down  to  me.  I  got  a  lovely  room, 
v'c'd  'ave,  slap-up  English.  I'd  feed  you  like  a  fighting 
cock.  Y'can  see  I'm  one  as  feeds  himself  decently.  I'd 
give  you  a  bit  of  pocket  money  .  .  .  and  the  boys'd 
give  y'any  amount  of  tips  if  they  knew  you  was  with 
me.  They  like  a  gentleman,  too.  .  .  .  Y'c'd  make  a 
tidy  bit."' 

Maurice  was  about  to  explain,  when  Victor  put  his  hand 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"  I  don't  mean  now,  straight  off.  But  when  y're  really 

stumped You  come  along  to  me,  and  we'll  do  something. 

He's  not  a  bad  lad,  when  he's  back  among  the  horses. 
Victor,  Portland  Bar,  Maisons  Lafitte.  You  remember 
that.  Any  time.  Don't  y 'worry  to  send  me  word." 

Maurice  was  touched  profoundly.  It  was  all  so  incon- 
gruous and  so  real.  "  I've  never  met  anyone  who  said  a 
thing  like  that  to  me.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  come, 
but .  .  ." 

"  Don't  say  that.  .  .  .  You  just  remember  it.  I've  got 
y'r  name.  I  won't  forget.  .  .  .  It's  a  rum  thing,  meeting 
people,  'pon  my  siwy,  it  is.  Christ,  it  makes  y'think, 
don't  it  ?  Talk  about  religion.  .  .  .  Y'ain't  religious, 
are  you  ?  .  .  .  Might  'ave  trod  on  a  corn,  you  see.  'Ave 
to  be  careful." 

"  He  gets  that  way  sometimes,"  Walter  confided  aloud, 
removing  his  rose. 

"  Wait  till  y're  fifty-six,  me  buck.  You'll  want  some- 
thing to  get  on  with.  This  won't  do  all  the  time."  He 
swallowed  a  glass  of  champagne.  "...  even  if  y've  got 
the  money  to  pay  for  it." 

"  All  right,  oP  cock,  we'll  see  about  that.  .  .  ." 

Victor  laughed.  "  By  God,  if  y'weren't  such  a  babe, 
Wally.  .  .  .  Y'd  fair  make  me  sick,  sometimes." 

"  What  time's  y'r  train  ?  "  he  asked  Maurice. 

"  Half-past  seven.    Garc  d'Orleans." 

"  If  you  ain't  doin'  anything,  what  might  you  be  going 


430  STILL  LIFE 

there  for  ?  ...  No,  I'm  asking  questions.  Like  my  cheek, 
ain't  it  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit."  Maurice  wanted  to  tell  him,  but  hesitated 
involuntarily. 

"  It's  a  woman,"  said  Victor.  Wally  woke  up  to  atten- 
tion. "  That's  what's  done  it.  You're  a  bit  soft  that  way, 
I  reckon.  ...  I  was  once.  Don't  let  y'self  in  too  quick. 
There's  good  'uns  and  bad  'uns.  That  little  'un  with  the 
boots  is  a  good  'un.  But  they're  all  funny  things.  .  .  . 
Quarter  to  five.  .  .  .  See's  a  bit  of  daylight  got  into  this  'ole. 
You  come  and  'ave  that  room.  Windows  so's  you  can  see 
for  miles.  D'ssay  it's  sun  there  by  now.  Shan't  we  have 
another  bottle  ?  We  got  to  go  in  twenty  minutes ;  get 
back  and  start  the  day  like  a  couple  of  little  birds.  By 
God,  we'll  have  a  thumping  fine  breakfast  when  we  do  get 
back.  Bacon  and  eggs,  heaps  of  'em.  Real  bacon,  none  of 
this  damned  lard.  .  .  .  That  makes  him  wake  up." 

"  No,  you  won't  have  another  ?  P'r'ps  y're  right.  I've 
lived  on  it  a'most,  you  see.  Portland  Bar.  Pouring  it  out 
all  day.  But  it's  a  natty  little  place.  New  and  clean.  A 
real  English  architec'  come  and  done  it ;  and  ev'ry  one  of 
the  fittings  come  from  the  Tott'n'm  Court  Road.  A  regular 
fine  saloon.  And  the  boys  ain't  bad.  They  talk  a  bit.  My 
own  talk  ain't  a  daisy.  But  they'd  knock  it  into  a  cocked 
hat.  But  they're  all  right,  really.  You  needn't  be  fright- 
ened of  them." 

"  No,  of  course  you  wouldn't  be.  ...  Don't  it  give  you  a 
bit  of  a  funny  feeling,  sittin'  in  a  place  like  this  and  waiting 
for  the  daylight.  God  knows  how  many  times  I  done  it. 
...  I  can't  get  used  to  it  somehow.  I  always  got  to  shut  at 
two  sharp.  I  lose  something  over  it  too.  But  there  y'are." 

"  Well,  come  up,  Wally.  'S  got  some  'orses  to  look  after 
at  the  station.  ...  I  do  the  talkin'."  Victor  settled  a 
generous  bill  while  he  spoke.  "  Y'want  anything  to  go  on 
with  ?  I'm  not  stony.  .  .  .  Au  revoir,  mon  brave,"  he  said 
to  the  gar£on.  "  Good-bye,  don't  forget  that  address. 
What  about  yours  ?  " 


STILL  LIFE  431 

"  I  haven't  got  one,  just  now." 

"  No,  of  course,  you  wouldn't  have."  He  went  out  of 
the  door.  Wally  shook  hands,  and  then  bent  down. 

:'  The  old  cock's  a  decent  sort.  He  means  it.  He's  not 
pullin'  your  leg." 

So  soon  as  they  had  gone  the  encounter  was  unreal  to 
Maurice.  His  body,  cheated  of  rest,  trembled  with  chilly 
emptiness.  To  still  it  he  called  for  a  bowl  of  coffee  and 
bread.  When  he  had  drunk  and  eaten,  he  began  to  doze  in 
his  corner.  His  anxiety  about  the  time  prevented  him 
from  sleep.  The  tune  of  the  guitar  reasserted  in  his  head  : 

"Good-bye,  my  bluebell, 
Farewell  to  you  ..." 

and  the  words  seemed  to  him  mournful  like  the  steely-grey 
light  that  spread  into  the  room.  He  heard  men  shouting 
viciously  as  they  drove  their  heavy  carts,  laden  high,  over 
the  cobbles.  All  things  but  these  faded  out  of  his  mind.  . . . 

"  II  est  parti  ?  "  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  he  was 
dozing  still ;  but  he  heard  the  words  distinctly.  It  was 
the  lady  of  the  boots.  He  blinked  at  her. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  more  than  an  hour  ago." 

"  Pt-pt."  She  clucked  with  her  lips.  "  I  had  an  idea 
that  he'd  be  gone."  She  showed  Maurice  a  small  bunch 
of  splendid  clove  carnations,  then  thrust  them  under  his 
nose.  "  They  were  for  him.  He  loves  flowers.  Carnations 
more  than  anything.  Oh,  la  ...  la  ...  You're  tired.  .  .  . 
It's  sad  in  the  early  morning,  isn't  it.  ...  I  give  them  to 
you.  I'm  off  to  bed.  Good-bye." 

It  wasn't  worth  while  to  doze  again.  The  clock  showed 
half-past  six.  He  went  out.  High-booted  men  were 
flushing  the  roadways  of  their  litter  of  cabbage  leaves. 
Sweepers  pushed  mountains  of  green  refuse  down  the 
gutters  before  them.  Here  and  there  an  old  man  or  woman 
packed  the  last  of  his  unsold  goods  into  a  cart.  Besides, 
there  was  only  the  dense  knot  of  men  before  the  bar 
opposite. 


432  STILL  LIFE 

"  II  fera  beau  temps,"  said  a  woman  tying  up  a  sack 
to  a  man  waiting  to  receive  it  on  his  cart.  The  light  was 
still  grey  and  cold. 

Maurice  went  slowly  through  the  empty  markets.  His 
legs  dragged  as  at  the  laborious  end  of  an  interminable 
walk.  But  he  was  relieved  that  there  were  so  few  people 
about,  for  while  he  passed  the  few  that  remained  his  feelings 
were  divided  and  painful.  He  was  remote,  a  being  from 
another  earth,  and  yet  he  felt  guiltily  conscious  that  they 
knew  all  that  he  had  done,  all  that  he  was  doing.  Inside 
the  station  hall,  he  was  one  of  many  who  waited  for  trains. 
His  presence  there  was  unremarkable  and  he  was  sheltered. 

He  had  yet  an  hour  to  wait.  It  was  the  longest  hour 
of  his  life.  It  enfolded  him  immeasurably,  and  he  was 
nothing  but  an  apprehension  that  it  would  never  end.  He 
was  the  first  to  board  the  train  when  it  slowly  backed  into 
the  platform. 

"  Pas  si  vite,  monsieur,"  said  the  man  at  the  barrier. 
"  Vous  n'etes  pas  le  rapide,  vous." 

Maurice  turned  and  smiled  at  the  laughing  man.  Again 
he  had  been  detected. 

He  was  in  a  second-class  carriage.  Men  and  women, 
bearing  bundles  and  pails,  passed  by  his  window,  but  none 
entered.  Only  a  soldier  climbed  up  and  stood  in  the  corri- 
dor beside  him.  It  was  to  him  a  little  shock  when  he  recol- 
lected that  plenty  of  soldiers  in  the  French  Army  were  well 
off,  and  more  accustomed  than  he  himself  to  travelling 
second-class.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  he  ever 
knew. 

When  the  train  began  to  move  he  was  happy  for  a 
moment,  for  he  had  never  quite  believed  it  would  really 
carry  him  away.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  carriage. 
A  sour  taste  was  in  his  mouth  from  smoking  so  many 
cigarettes.  He  lit  another.  It  burned  away  with  furious 
speed. 

The  sun  began  to  stream  into  his  carriage.  The  soldier 
sang  in  the  corridor,  Maurice  leaned  his  cheek  against  the 


STILL  LIFE  433 

window  and  looked  sideways  on  to  the  country.  A  nervous 
physical  inquietude  prevented  him  from  fixing  upon  the 
landscape  with  his  eyes.  It  melted  past  him  ;  and  some- 
times from  the  swiftly  flowing  stream  a  bridge  or  a  house 
by  the  railside  would  emerge  terribly  close  to  him,  and 
stupefy  him  as  it  roared  away.  White  spots  were  the 
houses,  green  mists  the  fields.  He  could  neither  turn  his 
eyes  away  from  them  nor  hold  them  in  his  vision ;  save 
only  when  the  country  parted  on  either  side  of  a  broad 
river,  with  dark  and  gentle  water  and  dark  trees,  and  the 
scene  became  a  remembered  picture,  a  romantic  landscape 
that  belonged  to  the  past  whence  it  had  sprung  to  his 
mind. 

Sometimes,  but  only  for  moments,  he  would  see  Made- 
leine before  him,  and  he  was  engulfed  in  tenderness.  But 
now  there  was  a  reluctance  in  him  that  would  not  suffer 
him  to  enjoy  his  own  surrender.  More  and  more  of  himself 
seemed  to  remain  outside  his  emotion,  and  the  instants 
when  he  saw  her  with  a  sudden  clearness  near  to  him  and 
bound  to  him  with  an  indissoluble  bond  became  more  and 
more  momentary.  Still  into  his  mind  there  would  flash  a 
speech  of  her  large  eyes,  a  rough  and  childish  movement 
of  her  hands  to  her  throat,  a  tremulous  movement  of  her 
lips,  and  a  yearning  to  be  with  her  again  would  pass  through 
him  like  a  gasp.  He  seemed  to  have  leapt  then  over  the 
distance  between  them,  and  the  years  and  the  miles  fell 
away.  But  the  moments  would  not  stay  with  him.  After 
them,  motive  and  purpose  left  him.  He  was  possessed  by 
a  fear.  He  was  afraid  to  meet  her  again. 

The  train  stopped  at  a  wayside  station.  One  person 
alone  was  on  the  whole  length  of  the  gravelled  platform, 
a  girl  who  ran  along  in  the  sun,  selling  cakes  and  fruit.  On 
a  mound  of  clay  that  showed  over  the  platform  fence  three 
navvies  were  digging.  They  stopped  to  look  at  the  train, 
but  did  not  move  at  all.  It  was  so  quiet  in  the  sunlight 
that  Maurice  heard  himself  breathing.  He  started  from 
the  silence,  took  hold  of  his  bag  and  placed  his  hand  upon 
2  r 


434  .          STILL  LIFE 

the  handle  of  the  door.    Then  he  hesitated  and  the  train 
moved.    He  threw  himself  back  in  the  corner  and  smiled. 

The  train  was  a  destiny  bearing  him  on,  and  he  acqui- 
esced in  it.  Then  he  was  consumed  with  bitterness  against 
himself.  "  Weak — I'm  weak,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
He  sought  to  convince  himself  that  he  appreciated  a  joke 
that  life  had  played  upon  him  and  he  laughed.  The  end  of 
his  journey  now  bore  continually  into  Ms  mind,  and  always 
he  was  afraid  of  it.  He  did  not  know  why  he  was  afraid. 

His  actions  would  not  stand  steady  before  him  that  he 
might  judge.  They  dissolved  into  one  another  and  eluded 
him.  Anne  was  distant  as  a  star :  he  seemed  to  grope 
along  a  ray  to  find  her,  and  then  it  was  not  Anne.  The  rest 
of  his  thoughts  had  mingled  in  chaos.  He  chimed  in- 
cessantly that  he  had  done  wrong — wrong.  The  iteration 
drove  him  to  feverish  distraction,  adding  a  last  disorder  to 
his  chaos.  If  only  there  was  a  right  in  it  all  to  hold  by. 
Deliberately,  he  smashed  his  fist  with  all  his  strength 
against  the  wooden  wall  of  his  carriage.  His  body  defied 
his  will  and  at  the  last  instant  checked  the  blow.  "  You 
can't  even  do  that,"  he  said  aloud.  Nevertheless,  his  hand 
was  hurt  and  he  sat  down  and  sucked  at  the  pain  with  his 
lips. 

Plucking  nervously  at  the  arm  strap  by  the  window  he 
was  bewildered  by  the  crazy  question  :  "  What  am  I  doing 
here  ?  "  Everything  became  incredible,  the  empty  carriage, 
the  streaming  landscape,  the  smarting  hand.  Had  he  sud- 
denly been  inveigled  out  of  life  into  this  ?  The  smooth  and 
steady  beat  of  the  wheels  upon  the  rails  answered  him. 
It  brought  him  steadily  nearer  and  nearer  to  something  he 
feared.  Again  he  asked  himself  petulantly  what  there  was 
to  fear.  He  could  not  reply,  but  he  could  not  convince 
himself  against  his  fear,  for  a  suspicion  worked  in  him  that 
he  was  afraid  to  tell  himself  of  what  he  was  afraid. 

"  This  is  when  men  commit  suicide,  surely,"  he  said. 
He  had  no  weapon ;  but  would  he  dare  to  kill  himself  ? 
If  any  was  the  time  for  suicide  it  was  this.  No,  he  was 


STILL  LIFE  435 

not  afraid  to.  Suicide  was  not  a  matter  of  courage,  but  of 
belief.  He  would  do  it  now,  only  he  believed  in  Life,  no, 
not  believed,  desired  life.  He  felt  that  something  might 
come.  Why  did  other  men  kill  themselves  then  ?  They 
did  it  now,  why  ?  Because  they  did  not  desire  life,  did  not 
believe  that  something  would  come.  No,  that  was  im- 
possible. He  saw  the  door,  and  knew  that  he  had  only  to 
throw  himself  out,  only  to  let  himself  fall.  "  I'm  a  coward," 
he  said. 

What  was  he  afraid  of  ?  Again  and  again  the  question 
tormented  him.  It  was  the  only  respite  he  had  from  being 
afraid.  All  the  dreams  of  triumphant  and  final  return  had 
dissipated  into  the  cold  mist.  The  flooding  warmth  of 
tenderness  and  self-pity  ebbed  utterly  away.  Even  now 
he  would  stop  and  go  back.  The  thought  had  no  positive 
meaning.  When  he  had  stopped,  when  he  had  gone  back, 
what  then  ?  What  had  he  to  do  with  anything  after  this  ? 
And  this  must  end,  must  end.  But  how  could  an  end 
come  ?  It  would  not  come  by  his  action.  It  would  come, 
he  supposed,  when  he  could  not  any  more.  ...  A  vicious 
flash  of  determination  kindled  him.  He  would  find  the  end 
in  Madeleine.  He  would  love  her  as  she  loved  him.  On 
that  he  would  lift  himself  and  conquer  life.  Of  course — it 
was  so  plain.  Here  he  had  been  deluding  himself  into 
agonies,  and  the  answer  had  been  before  him.  Again  he 
saw  her  in  a  small  clear  picture  of  that  old  life  of  theirs. 
They  had  been  sleeping  together.  On  the  chair  by  their 
bed  had  lain  a  sketch-book  and  a  pencil  that  he  had  taken 
out  of  his  pockets,  when  he  got  up  to  fumble  for  matches. 
She  had  asked  what  the  book  was  for.  "  C'est  pour  des- 
siner,"  he  said,  just  as  he  lit  the  little  lamp. 

"  Alors,  dessine  moi."  Suddenly  with  the  word  she  had 
flung  away  all  the  bedclothes,  and  had  lain  there  naked 
watching  him.  That  was  how  he  had  begun  before,  he 
thought,  as  the  warmth  of  his  recollection  clouded  about 
him ;  and  now  he  had  lost  what  he  had  but  a  moment 
found.  He  was  afraid  again.  He  sought  to  put  down  his 


436  STILL  LIFE 

fear  by  holding  fast  to  his  determination.  They  would  live 
together,  happily,  and  life  would  begin.  He  would  compel 
himself  to  the  pattern  of  life,  and  thus  he  would  find  himself 
again.  He  would  find  nothing,  nothing.  His  love  for 
Madeleine  had  been  the  beginning  of  himself.  He  could  not 
go  back  and  be  the  thing  he  had  been.  Neither  recollection 
nor  imagination  of  that  he  had  been  came  to  him  ;  only  a 
written  record  of  indecipherable  events. 

His  mind  travelled  the  same  weary  circle  many  times. 
Fear  was  followed  by  a  tender  calm,  and  the  calm  awoke 
the  fear  again.  The  effort  to  hold  fast  to  his  determination, 
to  find  the  end  in  Madeleine,  occupied  all  his  will ;  but  his 
will  was  weak  now,  and  soon  spent.  "  Why  not  ?  "  he 
said  to  himself  once  more  as  the  train  entered  the  station 
at  Lesdigues. 

It  was  a  full  half-mile  to  the  town.  He  could  see  the 
distance  plainly,  for  the  houses  were  bunched  upon  a  brown 
and  yellow  hill-side.  He  asked  the  station-master  if  there 
was  a  rue  Gambetta  in  the  town,  and  when  the  answer 
came  that  it  led  straight  on  to  the  place  he  was  glad  that  he 
had  asked,  as  though  he  had  narrowly  avoided  an  ambush. 

"  II  y  a  de  la  musique  tous  les  dimanches — a  la  place," 
said  the  station-master. 

It  was  past  noon  and  far  hotter  than  it  had  been  in  Paris. 
The  road  was  white  and  dusty.  On  one  side  the  ground 
sloped  steeply  up  to  the  hill,  and  the  small  enclosures  were 
covered  with  a  framework  of  poles,  climbed  by  slender 
green  plants.  On  the  other  was  marsh  and  pasture  down 
to  the  railway  and  beyond.  Maurice  looked  curiously  up 
the  hill  as  he  walked  ;  then  he  realised  with  a  certain  sur- 
prise that  they  were  vineyards,  and  it  seemed  to  him  then 
that  this  was  a  wonderful  place  to  have  lived  in.  He 
leaned  against  a  rough  wall  by  the  road-side,  reluctant  to 
go  further.  It  was  hot,  and  he  was  apprehensive.  The 
general  quiet  was  broken  only  by  the  dwindling  echo  of  a 
far-departing  train  and  the  sound|of  voices  drawing  near. 
He  looked  rigidly  at  the  vineyardsftabove  him,  for  he  dared 


STILL  LIFE  437 

not  look  at  the  road.  Two  women  passed  behind  him 
without  pausing.  He  knew  they  were  women's  voices, 
but  their  speech  was  so  strange  that  he  could  not  make  out 
their  words.  When  they  were  well  past,  he  looked  after 
them.  One  was  dressed  in  the  commonplace  and  frighten- 
ing black  of  the  towns,  the  other  in  a  peasant  costume,  wide- 
skirted  and  white-bonneted.  Neither  was  Madeleine.  He 
felt  that  it  was  beyond  his  power  to  go  nearer  to  the  town. 

He  made  an  effort  of  will  to  follow  out  the  beginning  of 
his  determination,  and  walked  on.  The  first  house,  whose 
garden  straggled  out  and  was  lost  on  the  hill-side,  smote  him 
with  fear,  like  the  gate  of  a  prison.  Turning  on  his  heel  he 
paused.  Some  people  were  coming  up  the  hill  behind  him. 
Surely  they  were  watching  him  now.  He  bent  his  head  and 
went  blindly  forward.  Once  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  look  in 
front  of  him  along  the  road,  and  saw  a  few  small  trees,  like 
rows  of  black-headed  pins,  at  the  end  of  the  vista.  In  his 
glance  he  caught  sight  of  two  women  who  sat  sewing  in 
their  doorways,  quite  close  to  him,  for  the  road  was  narrow 
between  houses  now.  Timidly  his  eyes  rested  upon  them. 
One,  grey-haired,  looked  up  at  him  indifferently,  then  down 
the  hill  and  spoke  to  her  companion.  Maurice  lowered  his 
eyes  and  quickly  hurried  on. 

At  the  corner  of  the  place  he  peered  about,  wondering 
which  of  the  roads  that  led  on  to  it  from  over  the  edge  and 
up  the  slope  of  the  hill  which  it  crowned,  might  be  the  rue 
Gambetta.  To  ask  anyone  was  impossible.  The  town  was 
so  still  and  small  that  every  whisper  would  have  reverber- 
ated to  its  confines.  He  turned  to  look  back  the  way  he 
had  come.  He  could  see  in  the  clear  distance  the  railway 
station  and  the  silver  line.  How  far  away  it  was  and  infi- 
nitesimal !  It  was  strange  that  he  should  have  been  able 
to  come  along  that  vanishing  thread.  ...  It  would  not  do 
to  stand  like  this.  Everybody  would  be  staring  at  him. 
Abruptly  he  faced  about,  and  for  an  instant  on  the  way  his 
eyes  rested  upon  the  enamel  label  of  the  street.  "  Rue 
Gambetta,"  it  spelt. 


438  STILL  LIFE 

He  was  overwhelmed,  distraught  and  sick ;  and  then 
his  spirit  soared  in  the  knowledge  that  he  had  been 
delivered.  He  had  been  lifted  out  of  the  very  jaws.  .  .  . 
Everybody  must  be  watching  him  now.  He  headed  quickly 
across  the  square.  A  debit  de  boissons  loomed  before  him 
and  he  entered.  It  was  cool  and  dark.  The  latch  clicked 
and  an  epoch  closed  behind  him.  Sitting  down  at  a 
wooden  table  he  watched  in  the  silence  the  dust  marks  on 
the  narrow  slit  of  clear  glass  above  the  window.  The  rest 
was  covered  with  dark  paper.  Somewhere  a  clock  ticked 
incredible  seconds  lazily  to  the  sun.  From  away  behind  the 
house  cries  languidly  reached  him.  A  man  came  in  with 
soft,  shuffling  steps. 

"  Monsieur  desire  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Du  vin— blanc." 

Maurice  leant  back  against  the  wall,  and  watched  the 
man  bend  down  behind  the  counter  with  a  bottle.  The 
wine  ran  cool  to  his  ears.  The  man  served  him  and  stood 
by,  contemplating  him. 

"  One  begins  to  be  thirsty  now,"  said  Maurice. 

"  It's  the  summer  beginning.  .  .  .  Does  monsieur  come 
from  far  ?  " 

"  From  Paris." 

"  It's  a  long  journey.  Very  tiring.  If  monsieur  wishes 
for  a  room  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  going  back  to-night.  .  .  .  You  have  a  time- 
table ?  " 

The  landlord  shook  his  head.  "  There  are  only  three 
trains  each  way  every  day.  One  can  remember  them. 
There  is  one  back  to  Paris  at  five  o'clock.  .  .  .  Monsieur  is 
in  business  ?  " 

Maurice  shook  his  head.  "  Travelling  simply."  The 
need  of  the  excuse  was  imperious.  "  I  ought  to  have  got 
out  at  Poitiers,  but  I  was  asleep.  I  was  up  all  last  night, 
so  as  not  to  miss  the  train  !  " 

"  Oh,  la  belle  histoire  !  "  the  man  laughed.  "  That  will 
have  cost  you  three  good  pieces." 


STILL  LIFE  439 

"  It's  my  luck,"  said  Maurice.  "  One  has  to  pay  for 
stupidities." 

The  landlord  nodded  his  head. 

"  Is  there  no  other  road  to  the  station  but  the  one  I  came 
up  .  .  .  ?  I  should  like  to  go  a  different  way,  to  see  every- 
thing." 

"  I  don't  know  one  myself,"  said  the  landlord. 

Maurice  was  safe  in  the  dark,  cool  room.  Desperately 
he  longed  to  be  alone.  While  he  talked  to  the  landlord,  he 
could  tliink  of  nothing  save  the  words  he  was  saying.  He 
could  not  even  approach  himself  to  understand  and  be 
honest.  More  than  all  else  he  desired  to  be  honest ;  but 
now  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings  seemed  to  have  departed 
from  him.  While  he  spoke  with  the  landlord  he  felt  that 
his  very  soul  belonged  elsewhere  than  to  him.  The  man 
would  go  if  he  said  nothing ;  and  yet  an  urgent  question 
trembled  on  his  lips.  He  shrank  from  asking  it ;  but  the 
desire  tormented  him.  He  wanted  to  say  it,  no  more.  The 
answer  mattered  nothing. 

The  landlord  turned  slightly  away,  bending  to  wipe  a 
table  that  was  not  stained.  Maurice  said  :  "  Do  you  by 
any  chance  know  some  people  called  De  la  Pene  here  ?  " 

The  landlord  made  no  reply.  He  went  on  with  his  tidy- 
ing. Maurice  had  spoken  so  low  that  he  had  not  heard. 
He  began  to  shuffle  away. 

"  If  monsieur  wants  anything  more,"  he  said  at  the  door, 
"  he  has  only  to  knock  hard." 

Maurice  could  not  ask  again,  though  he  tried.  His  mind 
and  body  were  one  dull  torment  of  pain.  The  emptiness 
of  unfulfilled  desire  encompassed  him.  Yet  the  relief  of 
his  escape  and  his  present  security  was  with  him  also.  His 
desires  were  unfulfilled ;  but  what  did  he  desire  ?  All 
things  and  none — to  be  near  Madeleine  and  to  escape  from 
her,  to  be  with  Anne  and  not  to  return  to  her,  to  die  and  to 
live  on.  The  impulse  to  each  awoke  in  him  only  its  instant 
denial.  They  followed  hard  on  one  another,  pressing  down 
and  obscuring  that  which  had  gone  before.  "  Choose, 


440  STILL  LIFE 

choose  now."  Something  at  his  elbow  seemed  to  urge  him 
to  instant  choice,  fevering  him. 

Voices  and  the  sound  of  loitering  footsteps  came  to 
him.  They  paused  outside  close  by.  He  shuddered  with 
a  terror  lest  they  should  enter.  The  darkened  window  and 
the  stout  door  were  but  a  flimsy  curtain  between  his  refuge 
and  them. 

"  Elle  est  triste,  vous  savez."  It  was  a  woman's  voice, 
and  she  laughed.  A  man  responded.  Maurice  did  not  hear 
what  he  said  ;  but  he  heard  everyone  laugh.  At  a  snail's 
pace  they  passed  by  the  door,  and  every  step  was  leaden 
upon  his  heart. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  he  muttered,  and  he  did  not  know  what 
he  was  denying.  Everything  blent  into  one  unbearable. 
"  If  only  ..."  he  said.  "No  ...  no,  God,  I  wasn't  made  for 
this.  .  .  .  Something  stronger.  ..."  He  stopped  himself 
with  a  kind  of  bodily  violence. 

"  I  must  get  away,"  he  said.  He  rose  and  dropped  back 
into  his  seat  again.  His  head  leaned  heavily  upon  his 
hands,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  two  flies  that  crawled 
upon  the  windows.  They  were  not  moving.  The  space 
between  them  did  not  change.  He  wanted  to  get  up  and 
see  if  they  were  really  flies.  Rising  again,  he  was  driven 
to  agony  by  the  scraping  of  his  chair.  He  waited,  listening 
if  the  landlord  would  come,  until  his  lungs  would  burst  for 
need  of  breath. 

£ . . . 4 '  You'll  crack  up,  like  this, ' '  he  said.  Incomprehensibly, 
he  thought  of  his  mother.  He  was  very  tired,  and  he  was 
leaning  his  head  against  her  shoulder.  She  patted  it  gently 
and  said,  "  It's  all  right,  dear.  It's  all  right."  Immediately 
the  dream  became  terrible  and  grotesque,  actual  and 
charged  with  horrors.  His  lips  moved  rapidly,  saying  over 
lines  of  poetry.  Verses  repeated  themselves  over  and  over 
again  : — 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell :  my  heart  is  dead  .  .  . 
.  .  .  Have  not  many  watched  their  soul 
"Wither  and  die  ?     It  is  not  well 
That  sick  hearts  should  torment  the  whole." 


STILL  LIFE  441 

He  began  a  long  speech  of  King  Arthur's  learned  at  school. 

"  Thus  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere, 
This  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  .  .  ." 

"  This  sequel  of  to-day,"  he  repeated.  He  felt  that  it  had 
something  to  do  with  him  ;  but  he  could  find  no  meaning 
in  the  words.  "  This  sequel  of  to-day.  ..."  It  was  urgent 
to  be  understood  ;  but  he  had  lost  the  key.  It  was  only  a 
sound. 

"  I  must  get  away,"  he  said,  as  though  he  were  seriously 
remonstrating  with  somebody.  He  had  to  go  down  that 
street.  "  0  Lord,"  he  said  gravely,  "  let  this  cup  pass  from 
me."  When  he  had  muttered  the  words  to  himself  he  was 
cold  with  horror  at  their  blasphemy.  He  had  offended  one 
of  the  unknown  powers  that  held  him  fast.  For  the  first 
time  came  to  him  the  idea  of  a  power  which  worked  upon 
him  ;  then  too  late,  when  he  had  sinned  the  sin  against  it. 
This  desperate  conviction  of  ultimate  offence  stiffened 
him.  He  stood  up,  and  the  noise  of  his  scraping  chair  was 
good.  It  was  something  done.  "  Die  in  the  open,"  he 
said,  smiling,  waiting  by  the  counter.  The  man  appeared 
in  the  passage.  Maurice  held  up  a  franc  in  his  fingers  and 
laid  it  on  the  counter.  Then  he  went  over  to  his  table  and 
took  a  long  drink  of  his  wine. 

"  Bon  jour,  monsieur."  He  returned  the  landlord's 
greeting  and  went  out,  closing  the  door  slowly  behind  him. 
He  had  to  go  down  the  rue  Gambetta.  The  landlord  must 
be  watching  him  from  the  door,  for  he  had  not  waited  for 
his  change.  He  had  to  go  down  the  rue  Gambetta.  He 
walked  slowly  round  the  side  of  the  square.  He  had  sinned 
against  the  power.  "  It's  all  up,"  he  said.  He  was  over- 
come by  a  sense  of  destiny. 

So  he  walked  down  the  rue  Gambetta,  saying  to  himself 
words  about  Destiny,  looking  steadily  at  the  houses  on 
either  side  and  the  people  who  passed  him.  None  of  them 
did  he  recognise.  He  felt  that  he  would  not  even  start  if  a 
hand  were  put  upon  his  shoulder,  or  a  voice  should  call  to 


442  STILL  LIFE 

him  "  Maurice."  His  pace  grew  slower  and  slower,  in 
response  to  an  instinct  that  he  must  give  Destiny  plenty 
of  time.  "  They  wouldn't  know  me,"  he  said  to  himself 
with  sudden  surprise  ;  and  he  knew  that  in  the  last  hours 
he  had  changed.  He  was  hardly  moving  at  all  now  ;  but 
all  curious  to  know  what  he  really  looked  like.  Instinc- 
tively he  put  his  hand  to  his  face.  It  was  cold.  His  eyes 
fixed  upon  a  doorway  flanked  by  two  empty  chairs,  and 
then  he  knew  beyond  all  doubt  that  Madeleine  had  been 
sitting  there  when  he  came  up  the  street,  that  she  was  the 
woman  who  had  not  looked  at  him.  Very  slowly  moving 
down  the  hill,  he  came  level  with  the  door.  His  eyes  were 
immovably  set  upon  the  chairs.  Madeleine  had  seen  him 
when  he  came  up  the  street.  Madeleine  was  dead.  The 
logic  of  his  strange  knowledge  could  not  be  questioned. 
How  funny  were  empty  chairs  !  He  had  never  known 
before  that  they  could  look  so  stupid,  so  utterly  empty. 
He  had  passed  them  now,  but  he  glanced  back  to  see  them 
again.  The  sun  shone  on  the  polished  seat  of  one  of  them 
and  it  glinted.  He  loitered  along  down  the  hill,  waiting  for 
Destiny.  Bitterness  and  irony  were  together  in  his  mind 
as  he  passed  below  the  straggling  garden  of  the  last  house. 
Destiny  had  missed  its  chance. 

So  he  came  again  to  the  station.  A  train  would  not  be 
long,  said  the  surprised  official.  Maurice  sat  in  the  most 
conspicuous  seat  by  the  door,  and  nearly  fell  asleep.  People 
were  talking,  but  their  speech  was  drowsy,  like  the  hum- 
ming of  insects  in  the  sun.  A  woman  with  a  basket  nudged 
him.  Would  he  like  some  cakes  ?  Her  basket  was  full  of 
them.  Then  he  knew  that  he  was  hungry,  and  the  woman 
with  wide,  amazed  eyes,  gave  him  the  worth  of  fifty 
centimes. 

"  It's  not  every  day  that  one  sells  like  that."  She 
dragged  a  bag  from  a  deep  pocket  under  her  apron  and  put 
the  silver  piece  into  it.  Maurice  blinked  at  her  kindly, 
wrinkled  eyes,  and  smiled.  "  Monsieur  is  hungry,  evi- 
dently." 


STILL  LIFE  443 

"  Yes.    I've  been  a  long  way." 

"  Ah  !  "  She  picked  up  her  basket,  trilling  a  youthful 
"  Bon  jour." 

He  was  almost  too  sleepy  to  munch  one  of  his  many 
cakes.  He  pulled  himself  together  for  the  duty,  sitting 
forward.  A  group  of  two  women  and  three  men  were 
talking  together  and  looking  at  him.  Plainly  they  were 
talking  about  him.  The  station-master  was  putting  in  a 
word.  His  white  Imperial  wagged  vehemently. 

"  Le  voici,"  called  out  someone  on  the  platform  ;  and 
the  group  moved  one  pace  together  towards  the  inner  door. 

The  station-master  stood  over  Maurice.  He  wondered 
what  he  was  looking  at  him  so  close  for.  The  Imperial  was 
wagging,  and  there  was  a  puzzled  twinkle  in  his  blue  eyes. 

44  Monsieur  has  no  ticket,  I  believe." 

"  No  more  have  I,"  said  Maurice  in  English,  then  in 
French.  "  I  forgot  all  about  it.  I  didn't  know  I  was  going 
back  to-day." 

The  station-master  had  scurried  into  the  office.  The 
group  was  looking  at  him  and  nodding,  "  What  did  I  tell 
you  ?  "  to  each  other.  He  could  hear  the  train  now.  It 
came  into  the  platform  just  as  the  station-master  returned 
with  the  ticket,  smiling. 

44  You  are  fatigued,  monsieur  ?  " 

*4  Yes,  a  little.  Good  day."  Maurice  went  on  to  the 
platform  to  board  the  train.  As  he  shut  the  door,  the 
station-master  dashed  up  again. 

44  And  monsieur's  valise  ?  "  he  called  out,  as  though  it 
were  the  culminating  joke.  He  hauled  it  up  into  the 
carriage  and  settled  it  in  the  rack  over  the  head  of  a  fat 
man,  who  watched  placidly  but  did  not  cease  to  talk  to  his 
companion. 

Maurice  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket.  The  station- 
master  laid  a  friendly  hand  upon  his  arm,  shaking  his  head. 

44  There's  no  reason.    Bon  voyage." 

44  Merci.  ..."  He  leant  out  of  the  window.  44 1  haven't 
heard  the  music  in  the  place  after  all,"  he  called. 


44:4  STILL  LIFE 

"  Next  time,"  shouted  the  station-master.  The  train 
was  moving  away.  Maurice  looked  back  to  wave  farewell 
to  him.  He  was  standing  beside  the  cake  woman.  They 
both  waved  in  reply. 

Maurice  sat  eating  his  cakes  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage. 
The  voluble  conversation  of  the  fat  man  rolled  about  his 
ears.  He  was  lulled  to  sleep  before  he  could  finish  a  mouth- 
ful. Once  or  twice  he  roused  himself  sufficiently  to  swallow, 
but  the  effort  was  soon  spent. 

The  fat  man,  whose  red  face  was  like  a  generously 
rounded  triangle,  its  apex  in  his  stubbled  sandy  hair,  bent 
forward  as  far  as  he  could.  The  movement  was  hardly 
perceptible.  But  he  seemed  to  enjoy  his  own  disabilities. 
His  two  hands  rested  appreciatively  upon  his  fleshy  thighs. 
he  indicated  Maurice  with  a  movement  of  his  eyes  and  a 
simultaneous  swing  of  his  little  finger. 

"  Epuise,"  he  said. 

The  man  opposite,  comparatively  thin,  mainly  black 
and  very  smart,  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  surprise,  and  regarded 
Maurice. 

"  C'est  vrai.    Pauvre  diable." 

"  Peut  meme  pas  manger,"  said  his  companion. 


CHAPTER  X 

ANNE  hesitated,  entering  the  hotel.  Her  final  conversa- 
tion with  Miss  Etheredge,  while  they  walked  slowly  under 
the  dark  arches  of  the  Odeon,  had  been  of  a  piece  with  the 
rest  of  her  day,  heavy  with  the  weight  of  incalculability. 
Words  and  actions  had  risen,  suddenly,  into  brief,  con- 
suming instants,  that  were  and  were  gone.  They  stretched 
her  spirit  and  left  it  aching  with  the  strain.  Yet  she  had 
known  it  all.  She  had  been  prepared.  But  these  instants 
had  been  beyond  all  preparation.  Like  lightning  out  of 
storm  clouds  they  had  leaped  apart  from  the  matter  whence 
they  were  born.  Pressure  broke  into  flame.  She  had  been 
steeled  against  the  pressure  ;  but  the  flame  struck  through 
her  defence  as  though  it  had  not  been. 

Anne  knew  that  the  last  flame  had  not  yet  been  sped 
against  her.  She  waited  in  the  shadow  by  the  hotel  steps, 
entranced  by  vain  and  sick  imaginations.  She  would  not 
enter,  but  go,  now,  far  away.  Facing  life  was  only  a 
romantic  lie.  Life  was,  whether  she  faced  it  or  not,  and 
she  would  live  without  the  help  of  empty  heroism.  Let  her 
be  taken  away  and  set  in  some  remote  paradise,  where  wise 
old  women  would  touch  her  gently  and  speak  softly  to  her. 
"  My  daughter,"  they  would  say,  looking  at  her  as  she  lay 
feeble  and  sick  and  world-broken.  The  sun  would  be 
heavy  with  afternoon.  She  would  lie  there  and  sleep  and 
wonder  that  she  was  ever  strong,  that  she  had  ever  been 
awakened.  "  My  daughter,"  they  would  say,  and  they 
would  smooth  the  cool  pillows  for  her  because  she  had  been 
burnt  with  a  bitter  fever  out  in  the  distant  world  that  was 
only  a  memory  of  evil  and  pain. 

She  swayed  a  little,  and  leant  heavily  against  the  wall. 

445 


446  STILL  LIFE 

The  dream  and  the  temptation  were  sad  like  remembered 
music,  sounding  about  her  while  she  ascended  the  steps. 
She  was  heavy  with  foreknowledge.  Its  weight,  not  any 
will  of  her  own,  held  her  still  in  the  vestibule.  The  little 
light  from  the  bureau  made  a  circle  on  the  ground.  She 
stood  just  beyond  it.  In  front  of  her  the  dim  stairs  climbed 
to  another  light  and  then  were  dim  again.  She  stood  out- 
side the  circle  of  light  like  a  player  in  the  darkness  of  the 
wings.  She  was  not  ready  to  step  forward  on  to  the  stage. 
She  was  tired  beforehand  of  the  part  she  had  been  cast  to 
play.  She  could  not  say  her  opening  lines.  And  so  she 
waited  for  the  reply. 

It  came  with  a  rustling  and  a  jangling  of  the  key  upon 
the  counter-plate. 

"  Madame  Temple  ?  "  said  a  voice,  politely  tired. 

"Oui.    C'estmoi." 

"  Monsieur  est  sorti  ...  a  minuit."  Anne  waited  still. 
"...  Avec  une  valise." 

Mechanically,  Anne  felt  it  was  her  cue.  Slowly  it  set  her 
movement  free.  The  play  had  begun.  She  was  climbing 
the  stairs  on  to  the  stage. 

The  light  which  she  turned  on  into  the  room  seemed 
itself  to  create  a  sudden  cold  desolation.  She  sat  down  in 
the  chair  before  the  dressing  table,  and  gently  lifted  each 
box  and  tray  from  the  table  and  set  it  back  again.  She  did 
not  find  any  message.  She  held  the  last  a  long  while  in  her 
hands.  It  was  the  little  round  black  box  with  the  broken 
silver  label  Studs.  She  opened  it  and  moved  the  studs  and 
buttons  with  her  finger.  Shutting  it  again  she  contem- 
plated it  as  though  it  had  been  a  strange  shell  picked  up 
from  the  sands. 

||  She  stood  up  from  her  chair  and  undressed  herself 
quietly,  recognising  the  new  clothes  which  Maurice  had  so 
carefully  left  behind  him  ;  and  with  the  recognition  came 
a  separate  stab.  Then  she  took  up  the  little  box  again, 
biting  her  lip  in  agony,  and  sank  into  the  chair  again.  "  Oh, 
Morry  .  .  .  my  lover,"  she  said.  She  saw  in  the  mirror 


STILL  LIFE  447 

before  her  the  tightened  flesh  of  her  lip  and  the  tears  that 
rushed  impetuously  down  her  cheeks.  For  an  instant  the 
very  sight  of  her  own  abandonment  loosened  the  iron  bonds 
that  gripped  her  body  ;  but,  the  instant  past,  she  knew 
that  what  she  would  see  would  frighten  her.  She  lay  down 
on  the  bed  with  her  face  in  the  pillow,  which  she  clasped 
about  her  head. 

Every  tautened  spring  in  her  was  loosed  in  utter  weak- 
ness. Without  sleep  she  dreamed,  the  vision  that  she  had 
seen  while  she  waited  outside  the  hotel.  She  was  on  the 
borderland  between  life  and  death.  Old  women  were 
smoothing  the  pillows  for  her  hot  cheeks.  Their  fingers 
passed  lightly  over  her  forehead  and  over  her  hair  :  "  My 
daughter,"  they  said. 

Anne  slept  on  till  the  spring  sun  warmed  her  face,  and 
she  slowly  wakened  at  the  touch.  She  remembered  all  that 
had  passed  before  her  sleep,  and  she  looked,  so  soon  as  her 
eyes  were  strong  to  see  in  the  bright  sunlight,  for  the  black 
box  upon  the  table.  Inwardly  she  was  calm  ;  but  the  pale 
face  she  saw  in  the  mirror  made  her  smile.  The  smile 
brought  back  some  blood  into  her  cheeks  and  sent  little 
waves  of  tired  contentment  through  her  whole  being.  The 
miracle  of  mere  existence  awoke  in  her  body  a  response 
which  her  mind  neither  controlled  nor  desired.  While  she 
moved  about  the  room  in  slow  preparations,  often  forgotten 
as  soon  as  begun,  she  was  for  a  time  no  more  than  her 
gently  acting  body.  Behind  it,  in  a  vague  and  separate 
distance,  trailed  recollections,  sharp  in  outline,  thin  in 
substance,  of  a  play  in  which  she  had  borne  a  part.  But 
not  that  face  which  steadily  smiled  at  her  when  her  eyes 
met  it  in  the  glass,  which  smiled  as  though  the  condition  of 
its  life  were  to  smile,  had  played  a  part  in  the  past.  Some- 
thing had  been  lost  in  the  perilous  passage.  The  principle 
which  united  soul  and  body,  her  recollections  and  that 
foreign  face,  had  been  worn  or  burnt  away  in  the  darkness. 
A  life  that  had  been  despaired  had  been  saved  ;  but  there 


448  STILL  LIFE 

was  a  chasm  between  the  past  and  the  present.  In  the 
crossing  her  life  had  been  enfeebled. 

She  took  up  the  black  box  once  more  from  the  table,  and 
moved  the  buttons  about  with  her  finger. 

"  What  funny  studs  !  "  she  said.  She  took  out  a  long 
one  with  a  swivel-top,  and  it  stood  like  a  tiny  monument 
alone  on  the  dressing-table.  "  It's  just  like  Morry  .  .  . 
Morry.  ..."  She  mouthed  the  name  as  though  it  were 
half-foreign  to  her,  a  word  that  had  suddenly  lost  its  mean- 
ing ;  and  she  seemed  to  be  waiting,  puzzled,  until  it  should 
be  informed  by  a  sense  once  more.  The  stud  was  somehow 
more  really  Maurice  than  he. 

"  I  must  keep  the  stud  to  remind  me." 

It  was  then  that  she  began  to  hate  the  room  in  which 
she  was.  She  wished  to  be  away  from  it,  away  from  the 
city.  She  was  not  desperate  or  impatient,  but  from  a 
point  in  her  mind  the  clear  and  invincible  conviction  slowly 
radiated  that  to  be  herself  again  she  must  leave  Paris. 
Paris  held  the  chasm  between  her  present  and  her  past ;  it 
was  the  chasm.  If  she  remained  here  her  mind  would 
never  cease  to  grope  backwards  for  the  thing  it  could  not 
reach.  Away,  she  could  hold  the  past  close  to  her  again, 
and  so  forget  it.  Now  it  was  outside  her,  and  she  was 
obsessed  by  it. 

She  began  to  gather  her  things  together.  The  activity 
of  ordering  them  beautifully  in  her  boxes  was  a  deep 
pleasure,  the  beginning  of  deliberate  calm.  Her  mind  had 
chosen  and  her  body  was  the  willing  servant  of  her  mind. 
Harmony,  brutally  broken,  began  to  be  again.  She  thought 
idly,  while  the  sun  played  bewilderingly  upon  the  silver  of 
her  dressing-case,  where  she  would  go.  She  was  gracious 
to  her  wounded  mind  when  she  found  that  it  was  searching 
for  a  place  like  the  haven  of  her  dream.  The  peace,  the 
gentle  warmth  of  that  persuasive  sunlight,  allured  her. 
"  I  should  make  one  of  those  old  women,  now,"  she  said, 
remembering  their  ministry.  "  That  must  be  in  the 
South.":  |No  use  to  look  for  opulent  summer  north  of  a 


STILL  LIFE  449 

Paris  spring.  She  would  go  to  Avignon.  Once — it  was 
their  honeymoon — she  had  been  over  the  palace  with  Jim. 
He  was  a  dim,  dissolving  outline  now. 

She  felt  herself  ready  to  take  all  experiences  deep  into 
her.  Now  she  was  transparent  and  open,  ready  to  receive. 
There  was  no  barrier  of  her  own  personality  to  be  broken 
down  any  more.  The  slightest  wave  would  ripple  gently 
to  her  heart.  This  it  was  to  be  free  ;  freedom  was  this  calm 
and  harmony  which  she  felt  was  being  so  sweetly  born  in 
her.  So  sure  of  it  was  she  that  she  asked  herself  whether 
she  was  not  strong  enough  now  to  stay  in  Paris  and  thus 
put  her  new  freedom  to  the  test.  She  was  disappointed  at 
the  question  as  a  little  girl  is  disappointed  to  whom  a 
promised  holiday  is  suddenly  denied ;  and  she  was  filled  with 
a  naive  wonder  when  she  remembered  that  she  was  the  mis- 
tress even  of  her  minor  destinies.  She  would  go  to  Avignon. 

Her  boxes  were  packed.  She  went  into  the  sitting-room 
to  summon  a  servant  for  her  bill,  and  to  look  at  the  time- 
table. The  time-table  lay  in  the  side  of  the  armchair  in 
which  Maurice  had  sat.  Even  in  the  smallest  things  the 
conclusion  had  so  delicately  fitted.  A  dozen  hours,  and 
she  was  doing  the  same  things  that  he  had  done,  sitting  in 
the  same  chair,  the  same  time-table  on  her  knees. 

The  door  was  softly  opened.  Anne  looked  up  without 
surprise  to  see  Dennis.  She  had  almost  forgotten  his 
strange  absence.  It  was  not  important.  Though  she  was 
wondering  whether  he  had  changed,  she  seemed  to  have 
no  memories  of  him  with  which  she  could  compare  what 
she  saw  now. 

"  Hullo,  Anne,"  he  said,  oddly  smiling.  "  I've  spent  the 
last  three  hours  sitting  on  my  bag  in  the  other  room,  trying 
to  decide  whether  I  would  wait  to  see  you  or  not.  ...  I 
don't  know  whether  I  decided  that  I  would  wait."  He 
spoke  as  one  sick  with  weariness  of  his  own  debate.  "  I 
suppose  I  forgot  what  I  was  thinking  about." 

"  Maurice  has  gone  away,"  she  said,  "  he  went  away  last 
night." 

2  « 


450  STILL  LIFE 

"  He's  left  you  ?  "  Dennis  might  have  been  indifferent, 
or  have  failed  to  understand. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  surprised.  ...  I  suppose  I  am 
surprised.  . .  .  But  I'm  left  behind  now."  He  laughed.  "  I 
made  my  grab  at  life,  and  just  touched  it  with  my  finger- 
tips. So  now  I  can't  see  the  importance  of  anything. 
Perhaps  nothing  is  important.  So  Morry's  gone.  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  what  do  you  feel  about  it  ?  ...  No,  I  mustn't  ask  that. 
.  .  .  You  know  I  can't  think  that  other  people  aren't  in  the 
same  condition.  .  .  .  What  a  wonderful  sun  !  " 

"  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  ask.  Only  I 
couldn't  tell  you.  I  felt  so  very  many  things. . . .  What  are 
you  going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  about  that,  too.  I  don't  know.  .  .  . 
After  all,  it's  hardly  likely  that  I  should.  ...  I  asked  Miss 
Etheredge  to  marry  me  yesterday." 

"  I  knew  that." 

"  She  told  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  hardly  remember ;  but  I 
gathered  it  from  her." 

"  Were  you  surprised  ?  "  Without  waiting  for  the 
answer  Dennis  looked  hard  at  her.  "  You've  changed  a 
lot,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"  Was  I  surprised  ?  .  .  ."  She  seemed  to  be  thinking 
back  with  an  effort.  "  No.  That  wasn't  it.  I  was  more 
frightened,  I  think.  Perhaps  it  was  Miss  Etheredge.  Yes, 
I  was  terrified." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  It  came  to  me  too.  On  my 
box  there,  I  was  wondering  whether  it  had  been  a  night- 
mare. Not  what  happened.  There's  no  doubt  about  that. " 
He  laughed.  "  But  the  way  I  saw  it.  I  thought  that  I 
might  have  been  sick,  disordered — in  my  soul.  Either 
that,  or  I  saw  something  plainly  for  once.  Perhaps  it  was 
life.  I  never  know  what  that  means,  except  that  it  is 
always  something  quite  different  from  what  other  people 
mean.  ...  I  don't  think  it  was  sickness,  really. 


STILL  LIFE  451 

"  So  Morry's  gone.  He'll  never  come  back.  He'll  try  to. 
But  now  he'll  be  strong  enough,  just  strong  enough,  not  to. 
He'll  not  be  worth  having  if  he  comes,  and — somehow — he 
is  worth  having.  One  of  these  days  when  he  loses  his 
pride,  he'll  know  what  it  was  that  he  nearly  held,  so  very 
nearly.  He  won't  be  sad — because  he  will  have  no  pride. 
Either  that,  or  he  will  never  see.  .  .  . 

"  But  I  believe  in  Morry  in  the  end." 

"  I  believe  in  him,"  said  Anne. 

"  Why  I  talk  about  pride,"  said  Dennis  slowly,  "  is  that 
I  am  losing  mine.  I  discovered  that  on  the  box,  too. 
Pride  .  .  ."  he  nodded,  recognising  the  truth  in  his  own 
mind.  The  recognition  seemed  to  change  his  very  tone. 
"  May  I  tell  you  what  happened  to  me  after  you  went 
away  that  night  ?  I  think  I'd  like  to.  It'd  help  me.  I  can 
go  away  clear  then." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear." 

Dennis  glanced  at  her.  "  I'll  make  it  short,"  he  said. 
"  If  I  tried  to  tell  all — why,  then  there  might  be  pride 
again.  Only  what  matters. 

"  When  I  think  back,  there  was  one  great  reason  why  I 
came  over  here.  There  may  have  been  others.  There 
certainly  were ;  but  one  was  important.  I  wanted  to  do 
something.  The  work,  the  position,  the  money,  the  kudos 
— it  wasn't  very  much.  I  can  see  now  that  it  was  very 
little.  Two  days  ago,  I  thought  it  was  nothing  at  all.  But 
before  I  came,  even  if  it  wasn't  much,  it  had  hold  of  me. 
I  hated  it  with  one  part,  and  delighted  in  it  with  another. 
And  then — perhaps  it  was  seeing  you  two  together — I  felt 
that  I  was  at  the  end  of  my  tether.  I  had  to  do  something, 
immediately.  It  was  to  be  a  kind  of  symbol  of  my  own 
will  to  good.  Chuck  up  my  job — came  into  my  mind 
instantly.  No  ...  it  had  been  there  all  the  while  ;  but  only 
then — the  day  I  left  you  at  the  station — it  begun  to  obsess 
me.  It  seems  incredible  now  that  I  hesitated  and  tortured 
myself  almost  mad  up  there  in  Sheffield.  It  took  me  a  fort- 
night, anyway.  You  can  see  by  that  that  it  was  something. 


452  STILL  LIFE 

"  Then  I  did  it.  Last  Sunday  it  was — last  Sunday. 
Good  Lord  !  when  I  was  going  to  the  station  I  was  happy 
enough.  That  was  a  gain.  I  can't  remember  that  I've 
ever  been  happy  even  for  half  an  hour  before.  But  when 
I  got  into  the  train  my  mind  began  to  work,  slowly  at  first. 
I  thought  that  it  was  my  own  particular  devil  worrying  me 
for  a  bit.  But  it  didn't  take  long  to  convince  me.  Chuck- 
ing up  my  job  seemed  only  to  be  a  thing  that  I  ought  to 
have  done  years  ago.  It  hadn't  any  meaning  any  more. 
I'd  done  it ;  and  I  might  just  as  well  have  stayed  up  there 
in  Sheffield  .  .  .  telling  them  about  the  optic  nerve.  I  was 
wretched  on  the  journey,  wretched.  I  convinced  myself 
that  it  didn't  matter  what  I  did,  I  should  always  be  the 
same ;  and  now  I'd  nothing  even  to  occupy  my  hands. 
The  whole  place  was  foreign.  It  laughed  at  me.  I  had 
something  to  eat  at  the  Gare  du  Nord,  I  remember,  and  I 
tried  to  decide  whether  I  would  just  go  back.  Every  time 
I  thought  that — it  got  as  far  as  taking  a  ticket — I  felt 
somewhere  that  I  was  funking. 

"  And  so  I  came  along.  When  I  saw  you  here,  for  a  few 
moments  I  had  an  idea  that  I  had  really  done  something 
worth  while  after  all.  I  don't  quite  know  what  you  had  to 
do  with  that  feeling  ;  something  anyway.  That  was  when 
I  showed  you  the  letter,  wasn't  it  ?  I  was  proud  of  it  at 
the  moment.  And  then  I  could  see  that  you  thought  it 
was  just  ordinary,  what  you  might  have  expected.  I  knew 
that  was  the  truth.  And  it  hurt  me  terribly  while  we  went 
along  to  that  tea-party,  terribly.  When  I  got  there  I  felt 
that  I  couldn't  say  a  word  to  anybody ;  because  they 
would  see  immediately  what  kind  of  a  man  I  was.  I 
couldn't  believe  it,  when  they  didn't  see.  I  think  I  ex- 
pected them,  the  moment  they  saw  my  face,  to  rise  up  and 
turn  me  out.  They  didn't  see  anything  unusual,  only  Miss 
Etheredge.  She  knew.  And  there  was  something  in  the 
way  she  knew  it  that  made  me  feel  that  I  could  have  killed 
her.  (You  don't  know  how  chock  full  of  murder  I've  been 
these  days.)  She  seemed  to  take  my  soul  in  between  her 


STILL  LIFE  453 

fingers  and  just  throttle  it,  like  that.  .  .  .  And  when  I  saw 
that,  I  turned  bitter  with  anger  against  her.  Then  I 
changed  .  .  .  curiously.  I  felt  that  I  had  an  enormous 
power,  that  I  could  be  cruel  beyond  imagination.  I  felt 
that  I  was  being  cruel  and  I  was  glad.  Do  you  understand 
that  ?  All  that  I  saw  in  Miss  Etheredge,  I  was,  only  ten 
thousand  times  more.  This  fellow  Wauchope  came  in,  and 
when  I  saw  him,  I  felt  that  he  was  just  like  me — not  in 
everything — but  in  the  thing  that  Etheredge  stirred  up  in 
him.  Only  there  was  a  difference.  He  had  been  beaten 
by  her.  Netta  was  only  something  to  help  him  forget.  I 
wasn't  going  to  be  beaten  by  her.  I  was  all  power ;  and 
the  power  was  to  humiliate  and  crush  her. 

"  I  was  frightened  of  myself.  I  was  two  things — this 
power  and  desire  to  be  cruel,  and  an  ebb  of  sentimentality. 
I  pitied  the  whole  world,  myself  the  first.  I  was  in  a  kind 
of  agony  of  regret,  all  at  the  same  time.  But  when  I  got 
outside,  everything  seemed  to  leave  me.  I  felt  as  though  I 
had  been  living  under  terrible  pressure  for  years  and  years, 
and  had  at  last  been  pressed  too  hard  and  failed.  .  .  ." 

Dennis  got  up  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 
His  hands  were  in  his  pockets,  and  his  head  bent. 

"  That  didn't  last  very  long.  The  memories  of  what  I 
had  felt  came  back  like  a  nightmare,  but  much  more  real 
than  any  nightmare.  It  had  been  a  kind  of  revelation.  I 
argued  to  myself  about  it  on  the  way  to  Montmartre,  and 
I  proved  that  the  thing  which  was  myself,  the  thing  that  I 
had  been  trying  to  find,  by  doing  things,  was  a  monstrous 
evil — infinite,  deliberate  cruelty,  not  for  the  sake  of  any 
pleasure  in  cruelty,  but  because  that  was  the  only  way  of 
action  for  me.  I  thought  of  all  kinds  of  monstrous  things, 
quite  deliberately.  When  I  was  dancing  with  that  girl- 
Josephine — no,  it's  not  worth  telling.  But  all  the  while 
I  was  horrified  at  this  cruelty  that  seemed  to  have  taken 
shape  inside  me.  I  was  just  dumb  with  the  horror,  fascin- 
ated. Sometimes  this,  sometimes  the  cruelty  went  all 
through  my  mind.  Sometimes  they  both  disappeared,  and 


454  STILL  LIFE 

again  I  wanted  to  do  something,  that  would  cost  me  a 
struggle.  I  think  it  was  because  I  thought  that  I  should 
learn  something  about  myself — and  then  it  was  a  symbol 
of  my  own  good  will. 

"  That  was  why  I  took  that  girl."  Dennis  laughed, 
despairing  and  indifferent.  "  At  least  that  was  the  first 
why.  All  kinds  of  other  things  crowded  into  my  mind 
afterwards.  It  seemed  to  me  cruel  that  I  should  take  the 
girl,  neither  loving  nor  desiring  her,  but  just  paying.  Be- 
sides, I  could  see  tliat  she  was  frightened  of  me,  and  anxious 
that  I  should  be  gentil — you  remember.  I  wanted  to  do  all 
those  cruelties.  I  hated  them  and  I  was  frightened  too. 
I  was  obsessed  by  the  certainty  that  this  would  change  me, 
and  I  was  terrified  of  a  me  that  I  did  not  know.  It  was 
like  waiting  for  death — with  half  a  hope  of  a  life  to  come. 
I  was  in  an  agony  at  the  idea  of  this  incalculable  future  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  I  couldn't  get  rid  of  the  thought  that 
if  I  couldn't  find  the  will  and  the  courage  to  do  it,  then  it 
was  all  over  with  me.  Then,  again,  I  thought  that  it  would 
hurt  you.  (Did  it,  I  wonder  ?)  That,  too,  made  it  harder 
to  do  it,  and  made  it  more  worth  while.  I  was  set  on  doing 
all  the  hurt  I  could,  deliberately.  Again,  there  were 
moments  when  the  girl  seemed  to  me  so  simple  that  I 
wanted  to  be  kind  to  her,  and  thought  that  she  would  be 
happy  when  she  found  that  I  was  different  from  the  other 
men  she  had.  I  know  that  these  things  sound  ridiculous 
together.  They  contradict  each  other.  But  I  felt  them, 
and  they  did  not  contradict  each  other  then.  .  .  . 

"  When  you  went  away  I  was  better.  I  had  stuck  out 
the  first  trial.  I  wanted  to  go  away  with  you  both,  des- 
perately. It  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  never  see  you 
again.  Something  was  going  to  happen,  to  you,  as  well  as 
to  me.  If  I  was  not  there.  .  .  .  Oh,  there's  no  point  in  going 
into  that.  It  doesn't  really  belong  to  this  story.  .  .  . 

"  The  girl  took  me  home.  She  said  it  was  better  to  walk  ; 
that  the  air  was  so  fresh  after  the  restaurant.  It  may  have 
been  true,  it  probably  was.  But  I  thought  she  was  trying 


STILL  LIFE  455 

to  put  off  the  moment  when  I  should  be  in  her  room  alone 
with  her.  And  then  she  kept  on  asking  me  :  '  You'll  be 
kind  to  me  ?  I'm  very  small,  quite  a  child  ' — she  actually 
said  that.  She  said  she  had  one  of  her  own,  and  I  must 
see  him.  His  hands  were  smaller  than  hers.  I  remember 
she  said  all  that.  She  kept  looking  up  at  me,  (She  was 
hanging  on  to  me,  so  light,  that  I  had  an  idea  that  I  was 
carrying  some  kind  of  silk  wrap  on  my  arm. )  I  saw  she  was 
frightened  of  me ;  and  when  I  saw  that  I  wanted  to  be 
more  and  more  cruel  to  her,  so  cruel — I  saw  this  actually  at 
the  time — that  she  should  not  cry  at  all,  but  just  stare  at 
me — stare.  .  .  .  That  was  very  clear  in  my  brain,  clearer 
than  any  diagram.  It  looked  as  though  it  had  been  drawn 
— ruled — in  front  of  me.  There  was  no  need  to  hurry.  It 
was  impossible  for  either  of  us  to  escape — for  part  of  me 
wanted  to  escape  as  much  as  she.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  we  got  to  the  room.  It  was  quite  small,  at  the 
top  of  a  long  stairs.  There  was  a  bed  and  a  chair  and  a 
table  with  a  mirror,  and  a  wallpaper  with  bright  green 
crosses  on  it,  a  pattern  of  green  crosses.  I  sat  in  the  chair, 
and  looked  at  her.  But  my  eyes  seemed  not  to  be  working. 
I  hardly  saw  her.  She  had  her  back  turned  to  me  and 
slipped  off  her  clothes  on  to  the  floor.  Suddenly  she  turned 
round  to  me.  I  thought  for  a  second  she  had  done  it  on 
purpose,  to  make  me  passionate.  She  was  bent  forward, 
with  her  hands  between  her  knees,  looking  at  me,  more 
frightened  than  before.  Then  I  knew  she  had  done  it  on 
purpose  because  she  thought  she  could  soften  me,  that  I 
would  see  how  small  and  slight  she  was.  So  she  was.  I 
think  she  was  very  beautiful  in  her  way — very  complete, 
perfect.  .  .  .  That's  not  the  word,  but  it  doesn't  matter. 
I  sat  in  the  chair  and  watched  her  get  into  bed.  She  made 
a  place  for  me,  banged  the  pillows.  Yes,  she  was  very 
pretty.  She  told  me  to  come. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  other  things.  She  was  more  fright- 
ened because  I  did  not  come.  Then  I  asked  her  if  men  had 
been  brutal  to  her. 


456  STILL  LIFE 

"  '  Never,'  she  said,  and  then  :  '  There  was  one  once ' 

"  l  What  did  he  do  to  you  *  ' 

"  She  did  not  answer,  and  I  asked  her  again. 

"  Then  she  said  '  no,'  and  went  on  saying  '  no.' 

"  I  seemed  to  forget  that  I  had  asked  her.  I  said  to  my- 
self over  and  over  again,  '  No,  she  wouldn't  answer,'  while 
my  thoughts  became  harder  and  harder,  more  brutal. 
They  were  hardly  even  thoughts  any  more.  My  mind  had 
nothing  to  do  with  them — that's  what  I  mean.  They 
simply  were  there,  like  a  lot  of  lines.  I  seemed  to  follow 
them  out,  infinitely,  along  lines,  one  after  the  other.  .  .  . 
(I  told  you  about  the  wallpaper,  didn't  I  ?  Bright  green 
crosses — a  pattern  of  them.  .  .  .)  All  these  crosses  seemed 
to  have  faded  away,  all  except  one.  That  stuck  out.  It 
was  very  bright,  shining.  Well,  all  these  thoughts — they 
weren't  thoughts.  I  can't  explain.  You  understand  ? — 
ended  in  that  cross.  I  suppose  it  was  rather  like  a  flower 
with  petals.  I  say  that  now.  Every  petal  was  one  of  these 
thoughts.  When  it  got  to  the  centre  of  the  cross  I  was 
satisfied.  Some  of  them  didn't — and  then  I  must  have  gone 
nearly  mad.  But  even  when  I  was  satisfied,  I  knew  it  was 
evil,  cruel,  terribly  cruel.  .  .  . 

"  I  must  have  forgotten  myself,  while  that  went  on. 
I  could  see  the  girl  in  my  mind.  She  was  very  clear,  mixed 
up  with  all  those  lines ;  but  I  forgot  that  she  was  really 
there,  in  the  same  room,  in  bed.  Then  I  heard  her  saying 
something,  just  a  kind  of  noise  drumming  in  my  ears.  I 
knew  it  meant  something,  and  I  wanted  to  find  out.  I 
knew  I  had  only  got  to  do  something  to  hear  her  .  .  .  you 
know  .  .  .  what  do  they  call  it  ?  ...  focus  your  attention. 
But  I  knew  it  was  terribly  important  what  she  said.  Every- 
thing depended  on  it.  Absolutely  everything.  I  could 
hardly  force  myself  to  listen.  I  felt  too  weak  to  know.  Of 
course,  that  can  only  have  taken  a  second  or  two. 

44 1  heard  her  say,  4  You're  too  tired.' 

44 1  was  saved.  Then  she  said  :  4  Come  and  sleep.  We'll 
be  good.' 


STILL  LIFE  457 

"  I  only  wanted  someone  to  hold  me  up  and  take  me  into 
the  air.  That's  what  I  felt ;  but  I  was  standing  up  as 
strong  as  anything.  I  forgot  what  I  said  to  her — probably 
that  I  wasn't  feeling  well.  I  forget.  I  know  she  sat  up  in 
bed  and  I  kissed  her.  She  said  :  '  You're  coming  back.  .  .  . 
I  love  you  .  .  .  grand  'bete.'1  I  remember  the  funny  way  she 
looked  up  at  me  when  she  said  'grand  bete?  I  gave  her 
that  fifty  francs  from  you,  put  it  in  the  hand  with  the  ring 
and  shut  it  up.  .  .  . 

"  I  wonder  if  I'm  being  too  tragic  about  all  this.  ...  It 
sounds  like  it,  doesn't  it  ?  Perhaps — but  I  can't  tell  it  any 
other  way. 

"  Aren't  the  nights  getting  short  now  ?  Have  you 
noticed  ?  It  was  just  on  the  point  of  dawn  when  I  got  out 
of  that  house.  I  could  see  the  steps  down  the  stairs.  I 
dare  say  I  was  there  longer  than  I  thought. 

"  It  wasn't  far  from  the  river.  I  don't  know  quite  where, 
but  not  far  from  a  kind  of  market-place  full  of  barrels, 
barrels  each  side  of  the  roadway.  I  told  you  how  weak  I 
felt.  There  were  a  few  people  about,  mostly  people  who 
had  to  stay  out  all  night,  poor  ones,  beggars.  I  gave  them 
all  something,  until  I  hadn't  any  more.  It  wasn't  charity 
or  kindness,  not  at  all.  I  wanted  to  buy  something  from 
them,  just  wanted  them  to  say  c  God  bless  you,'  or  any- 
thing like  that.  And  every  time  they  did — almost  every 
one  of  them  did — I  knew  it  wasn't  any  good,  just  like  when 
somebody  says,  '  Don't  think  about  that,'  when  you  can't 
help  thinking  about  it,  and  it  makes  you  think  about  it  all 
the  more.  Not  that  I  was  thinking,  at  any  rate,  not  what  I 
call  thinking. 

"  I  only  felt  hungry  for  something  hard  and  definite, 
that  I  could  take  hold  of.  I  nearly  achieved  it,  with 
Josephine  . .  .  but  I  was  stopped,  saved.  Yes,  I  knew  (felt, 
I  mean)  that  I  had  been  saved.  That  it  would  have  been 
better  if  I  hadn't  been.  I  was  only  a  wreck,  left  behind.  I 
wanted  something  to  crystallise  round,  and  it  had  to  be  my 
own.  I  walked  miles  and  miles  like  that.  I'm  just  begin- 


458  STILL  LIFE 

ning  to  feel  tired  in  the  legs  after  all  that  walking.  I  had 
some  more  of  it.  Sometimes  I  saw  queer  little  pictures. 
You  were  in  most  of  them.  Especially  us  two  on  the  top 
of  that  hill,  you  remember  ?  Not  so  very  long  ago,  is  it  ? 
No,  I  wasn't  thinking.  I  wanted  to  get  into  the  country  ; 
but  there  didn't  seem  to  be  any.  Outside  Paris,  the  way  I 
went,  was  just  like  the  inside. 

"  It's  not  worth  while  telling  all  this,  really.  .  .  .  Well,  it 
was  pretty  late  when  I  had  something  to  eat.  I  couldn't 
have  been  very  changed,  really — I  kept  enough  money  for 
food,  enough  to  bring  me  back."  He  felt  in  his  pocket  and 
showed  a  few  coppers  in  his  hand  and  laughed.  "  Rather 
nicely  calculated,  I  should  say.  I  ate  meat  and  things 
somewhere  near  the  fortifications.  The  wine,  ordinary 
cheap  wine,  made  me  warm  and  cloudy,  rather  as  though 
I  had  been  asleep  and  just  waked  up.  I  began  to  remember 
about  what  had  happened  since  I  came  to  Paris.  It  was  all 
hazy  and  not  intolerable.  Then  Etheredge  came  into  my 
mind.  She  never  went  out  of  it  again. 

"  She  suddenly  solved  everything.  I  was  going  to  marry 
her.  It  was  very  nearly  one  o'clock  when  I  knew  that.  I 
had  to  do  it  all  before  you  came  to  see  her  ;  for  I  remem- 
bered perfectly  that  you  were  going.  It  took  me  some 
time  to  get  there,  because  I  didn't  know  exactly  where  I 
was ;  but  much  less  time  than  I  had  expected.  All  the  way 
I  was  surer  and  surer  that  to  marry  her  was  the  one  way 
for  me.  I  can't  say  why  I  wanted  to  marry  her  ;  but  it  was 
plain  to  me  that  this  was  the  thing  I  was  seeking,  that 
would  save  me.  I  don't  think  she  came  into  my  mind 
except  as  that.  I'm  certain  I  didn't  have  the  ideas  about 
her  that  I  had  at  Ramsay's  the  day  before.  They  may 
have  been  there,  of  course,  but  they  didn't  count  for  any- 
thing then.  It  was  a  revelation  if  there  ever  was  one ; 
I  never  had  any  doubt  about  it,  and  after  a  little  while  I  was 
convinced  that  she  was  as  certain  as  I  was.  Only  I  was 
desperately  anxious  that  I  should  get  to  her  before  you 
did.  After  you  had  been,  it  would  be  too  late.  (It  wasn't 


STILL  LIFE  459 

you  who  would  have  interfered.  I  didn't  think  so,  any- 
how. But  it  had  to  be  done  immediately.)  I  got  to  her 
street,  as  it  happened,  in  plenty  of  time.  .  .  . 

"  She  opened  the  door  herself,  and  looked  at  me  for  a 
second,  and  said :  '  You've  come  to  see  the  pictures.' 
Then  she  went  away  and  left  me  to  shut  the  door.  As  soon 
as  I  saw  her,  I  began  to  doubt.  The  way  she  said  '  You've 
come  to  see  the  pictures,'  and  being  left  alone  to  shut  the 
door — it  all  helped.  It  began  to  be  inconceivable.  Some- 
where the  whole  world  was  laughing  at  me  in  my  face.  A 
foundation  had  been  knocked  away  from  under  my  feet. 
As  I  went  after  her  into  the  other  room,  I  clung  to  the 
words  I  was  going  to  say,  as  if  they  were  the  only  thing  that 
remained.  Nothing  could  have  stopped  me  from  saying 
them  then. 

"  She  was  kneeling  on  the  floor  by  the  fire.  As  I  came 
into  the  doorway  she  struck  a  match  and  set  some  paper 
in  the  fireplace  on  fire. 

"  '  You've  just  come  in  time,'  she  said,  ' .  .  .  I'm  burning 
the  gallery.'  She  didn't  look  at  me. 

"  I  was  hanging  on  to  my  words,  and  I  said  them. 
'  I  want  you  to  marry  me.' 

"  The  moment  I  had  said  them  it  was  all  over.  There 
was  nothing  more  to  hold  on  to  at  all.  She  didn't  even 
look  round,  but  stared  at  the  fire  in  the  fireplace.  It  began 
to  blaze  and  crackle. 

"  Then  she  said  :  '  I  knew  you'd  do  that. . . .  But  you've 
been  very  quick  about  it.' 

"  I  don't  know  how  long  it  was  that  we  said  nothing — 
a  very  long  time.  No,  it  can't  have  been  very  long.  The 
fire  hadn't  stopped  blazing.  She  turned  round  to  me  and 
said  : 

4  Smash  up  that  canvas  there.    It's  too  strong  for  me.' 

"  It  was  lying  against  the  wall  where  I  was  leaning.  It 
was  all  wet  and  sticky,  and  when  I  took  it  in  my  hands  the 
colour  came  off  upon  them,  on  my  coat,  too.  I  couldn't 
break  it.  She  told  me  to  put  it  on  the  floor  and  hold  it  with 


460  STILL  LIFE 

my  feet.    I  tried  to  hold  the  frame  under  the  point  of  my 
boot  so  as  not  to  harm  the  canvas.    Then  she  said  : 

"  '  For  God's  sake  stick  your  boot  through  it,  now, 
now.' 

"  I  did,  and  then  I  pulled  the  stretchers  apart.  She 
turned  away  and  put  them  on  the  fire. 

"  I  think  I  remember  every  word  she  said.  There  wasn't 
very  much.  I  can  see  everything  in  the  room.  But  you've 
been  there. 

"  First,  when  the  second  blaze  was  nearly  over,  she  said  : 

"  '  We're  two  lost  souls.'  She  was  half  laughing.  You 
know  the  way  she  laughs.  '  We're  not  going  to  save  each 
other.' 

"  She  never  turned  round,  and  I  never  said  a  word.  I 
just  watched  the  fire  dying  down.  I  couldn't  have  taken 
my  eyes  away  from  it.  I  think  she  was  doing  the  same. 
There  were  hardly  any  flames  left — one  or  two — when  she 
said  : 

"  '  I'm  married  to  me  art.'  She  was  laughing  all  the 
while  now,  and  I  could  see  her  back  going  up  and  down. 
I  was  frozen,  dead.  '  Married  to  me  art,  that's  what  I  am. 
Now  we're  burning  the  bridegroom.  Like  they  do  in  India. 
.  .  .  No,  that's  the  widow.  ...  I  read  all  about  it  in  a  mis- 
sionary book  on  Sundays  at  home.  ...  It  wouldn't  be  any 
good,  would  it.' 

"  I  said  no,  I  could  see  now,  and  I  said  good-bye. 

"  i  Don't  go,'  she  said,  but  she  didn't  look  round. 

"  I  went  out  of  the  door  and  down  the  stairs." 

"  You  passed  me  in  the  street,"  said  Anne. 

"  Did  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  "  it  was  a  good  job  I  went  then.  But 
I  don't  suppose  it  would  have  mattered,  who  had  met  me 
then.  I  was  done.  I  went  into  a  cafe,  the  other  side  of  the 
river.  I  was  determined  to  go  away.  That  and  the  know- 
ledge that  I  mustn't  go  back  to  the  hotel  until  you  and 
Morry  had  gone  away  to  dinner — that  was  all  there  was  to 
me.  I  felt  I  was  finished.  I  had  made  my  throw,  and  it 


STILL  LIFE  461 

hadn't  come  off.  So  nothing  mattered  very  much  either 
way. 

"  I  came  in  here  after  you'd  gone,  a  good  while  after. 
I  couldn't  stay  here,  and  I  wanted  to  see  you  before  I  went 
away.  I  sat  in  some  cafe  or  other  until  it  shut.  I  heard 
you  moving  about  your  room  when  I  came  back. 

"  This  morning  I  tried  to  think  it  out.  I  tried  to  make 
up  my  mind  whether  I  would  tell  you.  After  all,  you're 
the  only  person  I  could  have  managed  to  tell  it  to.  ... 

"  It's  a  funny  story.  I'm  very  different  from  what  I  was 
two  days  ago.  I  seem  to  have  lost  my  pride,  my  bad  pride. 
It  will  all  go  soon. ...  I  thought  I'd  like  you  to  understand. 
.  .  .  Yes,  I'm  glad  I  told  you." 

Anne  looked  at  him.  Her  ringers  rustled  the  leaves  of 
the  time-table.  While  he  had  spoken,  the  despair  had 
slowly  passed  out  of  his  voice,  and  she  knew  he  was  truly 
glad  that  she  had  been  there  to  hear.  To  her  it  seemed 
that  to  have  listened  was  natural  to  her,  and  it  gave  her  a 
sense  of  happy  calm  that  he  had  found  relief  in  her.  "  I 
am  one  of  those  old  women,"  she  thought,  and  spoke  her 
thought  aloud. 

Dennis  glanced  towards  her,  not  understanding. 

"  I  was  only  thinking  of  a  dream  I  had."  She  bent  her 
mind  to  the  fact.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"I'm  going  away — to  think  about  it  all,  I  suppose.  I 
haven't  thought  where  I  shall  go.  Not  back  to  England, 
that's  certain." 

Anne  opened  the  time-table  upon  her  knees,  and  regarded 
it  for  a  little  while.  Placing  her  finger  against  a  line  upon 
the  page  she  looked  up.  Then,  looking  down  again, 

"  At  fifty- three  minutes  past  one,"  she  said,  translating 
the  figures  slowly,  "  I  leave  for  Avignon.  Why  not  come 
with  me  ?  " 

"  I'd  like  to  more  than  anything.  .  .  ."  Then  he  spoke 
ruminatively  as  though  to  himself.  "  I  think  I  should  have 
asked  if  I  might,  before  you  had  gone.  Yes,  I  am  certain 
that  I  should,  now  that  I  have  told  you." 


EPILOGUE 

THREE  days  later  Maurice  climbed  the  stair  to  Miss 
Etheredge's  appartement.  He  carried  in  his  hand  the  bag 
which  he  had  taken  on  his  fruitless  journey  to  Lesdigues. 
Miss  Etheredge  opened  to  him.  He  stood,  saying  nothing, 
but  unsteadily  smiling,  with  a  shamefastness,  which 
he  had  anticipated  and  tried  vainly  to  suppress  on  his 
way. 

"  You've  come  for  the  room,"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  not  that." 

They  stood  together  in  the  passage.  In  her  presence  he 
began  to  feel  the  dignity  of  his  recent  past.  He  was  no 
longer  shamefast,  nor  did  he  smile  any  more,  and  he  spoke 
with  the  appearance  of  decision. 

"  No.  ...  I  thought  I  would  like  to  see  you.  That's  all. 
You  see  I  didn't  come  that  day  you  asked  me." 

"  Very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure.  You  think  you're  a  hero 
at  last " 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  When  did  you  run  away  from  Mrs.  C.  ?  " 

"  Three  days  ago." 

"  Oh,  the  same  night.  You'll  have  to  get  somebody  else 
to  mother  you  now.  ...  Or  did  you  think  I  might  be 
anxious  to  ta,ke  on  the  job.  No. . . ."  Her  voice  quickened. 
"  I've  had  enough  of  you.  Enough  !  I'm  dead  sick  of  it. 
What  the  devil  d'you  want  to  come  worrying  me  for  ? 
D'you  want  me  to  go  and  arrange  things  with  your  lady- 
love for  you  ?  " 

Maurice  became  stubborn  with  decision. 

462 


STILL  LIFE  463 

"  I  thought  we  were  friends.  That's  why  I  came  to  see 
you.  I  wanted  to  say  '  good-bye,'  because  I'm  leaving. 
But  I  made  a  mistake.  We  weren't  friends." 

"All  right.    I'm  sorry." 

"  It  doesn't  matter.    Besides,  I'm  going  in  a  minute." 

"  What's  the  hurry  ?  You  don't  have  to  catch  a  train  to 
heaven !  " 

"  No,  but  I'm  going." 

Miss  Etheredge  seemed  not  to  hear. 

"  So  it  busted  with  Mrs.  C.  It  was  too  pretty  to  last. . .  . 
Where's  she  gone  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  You  take  it  pretty  quietly.  I  shouldn't  have  thought 
it  of  you.  You  might  weep  a  bit,  make  it  more  convincing. 
Or  perhaps  you're  out  for  a  Don  Juan  nowadays  ?  " 

"  Perhaps.  But  don't  let's  quarrel  about  it,  will  we  ? 
It's  not  worth  while." 

"  You  think  you're  damned  superior  now,  don't  you. 
Tragic  look  in  the  eye.  Tragic  good-bye.  *  It's  not  worth 
while,'  "  she  mocked.  "  D'you  think  I  care  twopence 
whether  you  quarrel  with  me  or  not  ?  " 

"  No.    It  was  only  that  I  didn't  want  to  ;  but  still ..." 

"  All  rotten  conceit.  You  think  you're  the  hell  of  a  fine 
fellow  because  you've  made  a  muck  of  everything — quite 
proud  of  it." 

Inwardly  he  asked  himself  if  it  was  true.  The  answer 
seemed  to  tremble  like  the  needle  of  a  balance,  and  be 
trembling  still,  while  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  : 

"  Well,  good-bye." 

She  had  dropped  down  on  her  knee  to  read  the  label  on 
his  bag. 

"  Maisons  Lafitte,"  she  said  as  though  she  had  victori- 
ously surprised  a  guarded  secret.  "  Where's  that — are  you 
going  to  stay  there  long  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.    "  Good-bye." 

When  he  had  gone,  and  Miss  Etheredge  could  no  longer 
hear  the  sound  of  his  feet  on  the  stairs,  she  went  out  of  the 


464  STILL  LIFE 

passage  into  her  room.    She  sat  on  the  cushioned  seat  and 
leaned  her  arms  upon  the  marble  table. 

"  The  fool,  the  fool ...  the  little  fool,"  she  said  at  length, 
and  began  to  cry. 


PRIXTED  IN   GREAT   BRITAIN   BY 

WM.   BRENDON  AND  SON.    LTD., 

PLTMOUTa 


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